


The Wolf Lives

by Luke1813



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Fantasy, Mystery, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romance, Spiritual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 328,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24163957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luke1813/pseuds/Luke1813
Summary: Stripped of everything that he holds dear, Geralt of Rivia searches for meaning and peace in a world without hope. This tale is a sequel to the ‘bad’ ending of The Witcher 3 videogame. It is a Lord of the Rings type adventure mixed with lots of character development and was originally posted as a trilogy in 2016-18.Warnings: Contains major spoilers of both books and games (including the expansions). Not 100% canon compliant. Contains heavy existential, philosophical, and religious themes.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

oOo

Story Synopsis: Stripped of everything that he holds dear, Geralt of Rivia searches for meaning and peace in a world without hope. This tale is a sequel to the ‘bad’ ending of The Witcher 3 videogame. It is a Lord of the Rings type adventure mixed with lots of character development and was originally posted as a trilogy in 2016-18. 

Warnings: Contains major spoilers of both books and games (including the expansions). Not 100% canon compliant. Rated T for violence and language. Contains heavy existential, philosophical, and religious themes.

Disclaimer: This work is based on the characters and universe created and owned by Andrzej Sapkowski and/or CD Projekt Red. This is my initial attempt at writing fiction and was undertaken strictly for my and, hopefully, for your enjoyment.

Author’s Note (July 2018):  
Whether they be in books, movies, television, or games, few characters have ever resonated with me like Geralt of Rivia has. After playing the Wild Hunt game and its expansions many times, it was a melancholy day when I finally decided it was time to put Geralt on the shelf. I didn’t want to say goodbye. I didn’t want his story to end, and, then, I realized that it didn’t have to. That led to the seeds of this adventure beginning to germinate in August of 2016. I am very grateful to all the dedicated professionals at CD Projekt Red, who pour so much passion into their games that it spills over onto the rest of us. Experiencing such an impactful game inspired me to attempt something that I had never tried before and, perhaps, never would have tried without. Writing this story was challenging, interesting, frustrating, but, above all, very rewarding. If you choose to read this tale, then I truly hope you get as much enjoyment out of reading it as I got out of writing it.

oOo

The Wolf Lives  
Book 1: The Wolf Awakens  
Chapter 1

_Lands Unknown, 2100 Years Ago_

Gaineamh sprinted toward the edge of the cliff, his crying, four-year-old son’s little arms wrapped tightly around his neck. He was only a hundred feet from the edge, and as he lifted his gaze from the ground in front of him, his view was entirely filled by the great ocean that ran on forever in every direction. He suddenly heard his wife, Darab, cry out his name from behind. He turned his head expecting to see her right next to him but stopped as soon as he realized she was no longer there. She had stumbled and was down on her knees, frantically crawling toward their infant son who had flown from her grip when she had tripped on the rocky plain. He ran back to them both, getting to his infant at the same time as his wife. Darab pulled the blanket from her now wailing son but didn’t see any blood.

“Darab! He’s okay! We must run!” he yelled to his wife as she scooped up her infant in her arms and as he tugged at her thin blouse to help her to her feet. 

With his back now to the ocean, Gaineamh had a clear view of what was behind them, and he was overwhelmed by the sight. The plain was miles wide and ran back towards the west for even more miles until it reached the base of an enormous mountain range. The entire plain was covered with hundreds of thousands of his race running in his direction, almost all, like Darab and him, with children. The smallest children were carried in arms while the older ones were running alongside their parents hand-in-hand. Screams rent the air and the look of terror was clear on the faces of all. Far behind, coming down from the mountain range, he could just make out their pursuers. He could tell, even from this distance, that they were not of his nation, who were all on foot and wore clothing of very thin and light material. Those in the mountains were mounted and were adorned with heavy, black armor. Upon seeing his pursuers so close, he began to despair. There was no way they would all make it now. 

He quickly turned and began running again towards the edge of the precipice, and seconds later, he skidded to a halt as he reached the ledge. He was filled with hope and dread at the same time. Down below, anchored just off the shoreline were hundreds and hundreds of gleaming white ships just as they had been promised. Unfortunately, it looked as if there was no way to get to them. The two-hundred-foot-high cliff face was almost completely vertical. And, even if they’d had ropes long enough to reach down to the beach, they’d never get down before their pursuers arrived. 

“We trusted you, Ghloirinevellienn,” Gaineamh whispered to himself. 

More and more of his race began arriving at the cliff’s edge, and as they saw their predicament, they either began to wail or turn to him for guidance. 

“Why are they looking to me?” he thought to himself. “I’m not my father.”

He pried his son from his neck and handed him to Darab and yelled, “Stay here! I’ll be back!” He then turned and began running along the cliff’s edge, hoping to find any kind of access down towards the beach. After five minutes of searching, he found a narrow, winding pathway that zig-zagged back and forth dozens of times along the cliff’s face. He thought that, though it would be hazardous, they would be able to descend to the beach on the path, but he shook his head as he realized that it would literally take days for everyone to make it down. The path was too narrow for more than one person to traverse. They would have to go down one at a time in a very long, single-file line. He looked back towards the mountain range to see that their pursuers had now reached the plain. Given that they were mounted, they would arrive shortly, and then death or – even worse - captivity would follow.

Gaineamh rushed back to his family and grabbed Darab by the hand.

“Come!” he yelled at both her and everyone around him.

When he arrived at the pathway, he took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “You must get our sons on a ship. Promise me.” 

“What about you?” she asked, pleading clear in her eyes and voice.

“I’ll come, but I must help my father. Now, go!”

Darab wanted to argue, but she had her sons to think of. She turned and slowly began making her way down the narrow, treacherous path towards salvation, carrying both of her sons in her arms.

Gaineamh ran towards the west, back towards the mountain range, but it was nearly impossible as more and more of his race arrived at the cliff’s edge. He finally began roaring at the top of his lungs, “Make way! Make way!” as he sprinted through them, hoping that his yells would make them scatter. He had to get to his father, who he knew would be bringing up the rear of the nation. His father had tasked him to lead them to the ocean, and he’d done that, but to no avail it seemed. It looked like, at best, a thousand of them would make it to the ships before their mounted pursuers cut them down like wheat during the harvest.

Ten minutes later, he saw his father, Creideamh. He was, with his head bowed, down on both knees in the middle of the plains facing the west, facing their enemy.

“Father!” Gaineamh cried has he ran up to him. “We’ll never -”

But he was knocked from his feet as balls of fire suddenly fell from the sky. The fiery meteorites impacted the land causing giant explosions of dirt and rock to fill the air. As more and more fell from the heavens, the plains caught fire, completely walling off the mounted pursuers. 

Three days later, Gaineamh was standing in the stern of one of the last ships to depart. It had just set sail and was only a few hundred yards from the shore. With his wife and children next to him, he was staring back towards the cliff’s face and up towards the plains. And it was only then that, suddenly, the meteorites ceased to fall. 

oOo

 _Velen, June 1272_

“I’m suicidal? Well, you’re the one who’s dead, bitch.”

The witcher pulled upward on the hilt of his silver sword – the one pinning the Crone’s head to the ground – and after searching the hag’s corpse, he stalked towards the tallest of the three wooden buildings of the ‘orphanage’ located in the middle of Crookback Bog. He ignored the dozen or more swamp monsters that were circling the just-finished battle. He had a solitary focus – to find the wolf-head medallion. With a swift kick, the partially-open, front door flew inward on its hinges, slamming against the rotted, wooden wall, causing the entire shack to shudder. The first floor was composed of a large, central space, and since the sun was just setting, the room was dimly lit, and shadows filled its corners. On the wall opposite the front entrance was a cultish shrine consisting of dozens of lit candles, human ears, primitive dolls, and a large, partially destroyed tapestry – a tapestry woven of human hair that covered the entire wall. The monster-hunter headed to his left, to the first shelf he saw and began searching through bowls and the other ornaments and knick-knacks that cluttered the lair of the Ladies of the Swamp. 

With each passing moment, the frustration of the normally stoic man grew until he began prowling the interior in a semi-frantic state. The witcher’s eyes spotted a small, wooden chest – partially hidden by a stool – to one side of the room. Dropping his sword to his feet, he picked up the locked chest and, with a guttural yell, raised it above his head and threw it to the floor, where it splintered into pieces. A few beams of the dying sunlight found their way through the open door of the shack and twinkled off a silver object hidden within the wooden debris. The weary warrior bent down to pick up the trinket. With his mission complete, seven days’ worth of exhaustion came flooding in on the white-haired man and dropped him to his knees. 

And, then, the witcher closed his eyes, bowed his head, and wept - or at least as much as a witcher was capable. The monster-slayer lost track of time as he knelt on the floor of the shack, but, eventually, he slowly opened his eyes and looked down at the School of the Wolf medallion in his hand – the very medallion that had once been worn by both his mentor, Vesemir, and by his adopted daughter. No tears filled his eyes, but a single, barely audible sound escaped from his throat as he exhaled.

“Ciri,” he whispered. He almost choked on the name. 

While the mutagens taken in witchers’ youth did cause mutations in their bodies, they did not, contrary to popular belief, truly strip witchers of their ability to experience human feelings. Or, at least, they had not done so with Geralt of Rivia, and in that moment, waves of emotions roiled inside the aging man – sorrow, guilt, anger, and frustration. Sorrow – because he knew that he would never again hear Ciri’s laugh; he would never again feel her slender arms hug his neck. Gone was the chance of ever passing on his experience and wisdom to her as they walked the Path together. Guilt and anger – because he still believed that he could have done something to prevent her death. Frustration – because he simply didn’t know what to do with all of these feelings now. Vengeance Geralt knew well, and a quest for such would have allowed him to deal with or, at least, ignore the storm of emotions inside of him. Ending the life of Vesemir’s killer had been an incredible catharsis for Geralt, but vengeance - Geralt preferred the word ‘justice’ - was simply not a possibility in this case. He couldn’t exact retribution against his twenty-one-year-old daughter’s killer for she had, just a week ago, defeated the White Frost herself. But she had also lost her own life in doing so. 

The witcher had, therefore, come to Crookback Bog with a two-fold mission. He wanted to retrieve the wolf-head medallion for it was the only thing left of Ciri’s in this world. And, secondly, he also had unfinished business with Weavess – the Crone who had ripped the medallion from Ciri’s neck in a prior battle. Since he couldn’t execute vengeance against the White Frost, then he had been forced to pick an alternate object for his wrath. But now…now that he had achieved both his goals, he found that they didn’t give him the satisfaction and release that he’d been hoping for. Killing the Crone – while justified – still didn’t bring Ciri back to life. And the rage was still there. 

“Damn it, Ciri. It should have been me,” he rasped out. 

The witcher breathed in deeply, but it felt like a knife to the lungs. The hollowness in his chest seemed alive, as if it was eating him from the inside. He closed his eyes and began squeezing the silver, wolf-head medallion as hard as he could – as if somehow that would help him fight off the anguish. His senses screamed as the sharp metal points on the medallion pierced the flesh of his fingers. But he kept squeezing harder and harder, increasing the pain. As the blood dripped off his fingerless gloves, Geralt, strangely, felt some kind of relief. He wasn’t even consciously aware of it, but his inner turmoil seemed to decrease in intensity the harder he squeezed. Geralt opened his eyes to see a single drop of blood fall to the floor. With his enhanced senses, the dark red orb appeared to fall as if in slow motion. When it hit the wooden slats of the dead Crone’s shack, it sounded like a loud clap, which snapped him out of his thoughts and into the present moment…and the witcher’s instincts kicked in. 

Instantly, Geralt stepped on his silver sword laying at his feet while simultaneously slamming the floor with Aard Sweep, an enhanced version of Aard, one of his five witcher Signs or ‘magical’ abilities. Immediately, three approaching bog creatures that had entered the shack flew backwards, along with furniture, dishes, potted-plants, and other detritus in all directions. In one, fluid motion, the monster-slayer scooped up his sword, somersaulted towards the nearest ghoul and, then, rising to his feet, pierced the heart of the still-supine creature. With his back to the other two necrophages, he immediately sidestepped to his left to avoid a lunging alghoul, which had just swiped a claw through the air where Geralt’s spine had been a split-second before. With a downward, diagonal stroke, he bisected the attacking monster right through its mid-section and then used the momentum of his killing blow to spin toward the third beast. He looked past the monster and saw a half-dozen drowners nearing the front door. Having been in the shack before, Geralt knew that this was the only entrance. If he could keep the rest of the monsters outside, then he could use that one entryway as a choke point to keep from being surrounded. He pulled a Dancing Star bomb from his belt and tossed it towards the front door. The bomb hit the lead drowner and exploded in a fiery ball, scorching all of the necrophages and pushing them away from the entrance. Their screeches of agony brought a small sneer to the witcher’s face. As their bodies burned, the fury inside of him grew hotter. 

The remaining ghoul on the inside of the house was momentarily distracted by the explosion behind it and turned its head away from its prey. A split-second was all that the witcher needed. He hopped forward toward the beast and removed its head with a strike to the neck. Geralt then looked up toward the entrance to see fiery flames licking the door and part of the doorframe.

“Should’ve used Northern Wind,” the witcher growled to himself, referring to one of his non-flammable bombs. 

Geralt cast a standard Aard Sign toward the entrance. The explosive, telekinetic force blew the damaged door off its hinges, but it also doused the flames. With the fire extinguished and with his back covered, the experienced fighter knew the situation was in hand. Drowners, ghouls, and alghouls, not being rational-thinking creatures, lacked the ability to strategize so he readied himself to simply exterminate each monster one-by-one as they entered the shack. 

“Who’s next?” he asked in his gravelly voice as the howls of the beasts filled the night air. This gods-forsaken world would feel his pain.

Ten minutes later, the bloody corpses of bog-creatures littered the area near the front door of the shack. Geralt moved to the center of the ‘orphanage’ and surveyed his surroundings. Even without the full moon, he could have easily seen general features in the dark due to his ‘cat’ eyes - effects of the mutagens taken as a child. While he could hear creatures a quarter-mile away, he neither saw nor sensed any in the vicinity. 

He suddenly remembered the first time he’d set foot in the miserable swampland known as Crookback Bog. It was just a few weeks back while searching for Ciri. Memories of names and faces started rushing in, and he slowly shook his head as he realized just how much death and pain had occurred in the bog because of the Crones who had lived there. 

“So much evil here. It should all burn.”

Geralt mounted his trusty mare as flames consumed the buildings around them, the fire causing shadows to dance throughout the surrounding swamp.

“I hope you got everything, Roach,” the monster-slayer said to his horse, “‘cause we’re never coming back.” 

The witcher didn’t know where he was headed but knew he had to stay on the Path. As long as he had monsters to battle, then he wouldn’t have to face the monster that lurked within. 

oOo

  
_Vizima, Temeria; August 1272_

Emperor Emhyr var Emreis was not having a good day. The truth was that the man also known as ‘The White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Foes’ wasn’t having a very good summer. It had all started two months ago when Philippa Eilhart had informed him that Ciri was missing, presumed dead. The sorceress, however, didn’t have any details to give nor did she know exactly where the witcher – who did have details - had gone. The monster-slayer had mentioned something to Yennefer about Crookback Bog prior to leaving the island of Undvik but nothing else. Therefore, it had taken the Emperor’s men two months to track down the girl’s adoptive father and escort him to Vizima, the Emperor’s temporary residence for the duration of the war against the North. 

As he watched the White Wolf being escorted into his chambers, the Emperor was genuinely surprised. He may have disliked the impudent witcher, but he’d always held some begrudging respect for his professionalism and for his lethal capabilities. But the man currently standing in front of him had an appearance that was more akin to a drunken vagabond than a highly trained killer. He looked like he was barely capable of tying his own boots. The witcher’s hair – normally pulled neatly back into a ponytail – was long and loose, hanging down to his shoulders. His beard looked scraggly and very unkempt. And the Emperor didn’t even realize it was possible for a witcher’s cat eyes to be bloodshot, but Geralt’s certainly were. And the smell – it was as if alcohol was seeping from the witcher’s pores. Which, in truth, was actually a good thing as it served as an unintended blessing of masking the witcher’s horrible body odor. 

“Did she…say anything about me?” the Emperor asked after hearing an abridged summary of the events surrounding his biological daughter’s presumed death. Only the fact that her body had never been found kept her death from being confirmed.

“Not a word. To her, you were just some guy who knocked up her mom – nothing more.” 

The witcher’s face remained neutral, but the derision in his voice was unmistakable. 

The Emperor swallowed hard and then, with eyes narrowed and jaws clenched, turned his back on the Butcher of Blaviken. “You are dismissed, Witcher. I wish to never see you again. Understood?”

“The feeling’s mutual…Duny.” 

The Emperor spun around, half-expecting the witcher to be walking out the door. Instead, the bounty hunter stood deathly still in the middle of the room, his eyes boring into those of the most powerful man on the Continent. After several long seconds of silence, a strange look crossed the witcher’s face - the Emperor could have sworn it was a look of disappointment - and then the White Wolf turned and exited the chambers. 

The Emperor seethed. The witcher’s last comment a reminder that the Emperor owed his life to the monster-slayer. It stung his pride to know that he owed any man anything, much less his very existence to a mutant like Geralt of Rivia. 

The news of Ciri’s death was quite unwelcome. It certainly destroyed the Emperor’s plans of abdicating the throne. The truth was that, after decades of leading the Empire, he was exhausted. He may have been the most powerful man on the Continent, but he felt the accompanying weight of the responsibility that came with that position every day. He knew that emperors typically only left their post via death – occasionally of natural causes but more often by assassination. The only exception was when they had a strong successor already lined up. Ciri was to be that successor. With the power she possessed from carrying the Elder Blood and with his mentoring in the area of diplomacy and leadership, she could have and would have easily replaced him as ruler of the planet’s greatest empire and continued both his and the nation’s legacy far into the future. And the Emperor was getting to an age where his legacy was of utmost importance. He had already done more for the Nilfgaardian Empire than any of his predecessors. Through military conquests and political alliances, he had pushed the nation’s boundaries further than they’d ever been. His was easily the largest and most powerful empire the planet had ever seen. And it was all due to him. Knowing that Ithlinne’s Prophecy stated that Ciri’s offspring would eventually rule the entire world, his plan had been to turn the reins of the Empire over to her. Then, his legacy would be set. He would be forever known as the architect who had built the foundation for the world’s most formidable empire. But, as it turned out, Ithlinne, the Elven oracle, didn’t accurately predict everything after all. 

oOo

Geralt strapped his swords to his back as he walked out of the Vizima palace, and, for some reason, the Crone’s last words came back to him, “I can smell the stench of suicide on you.” That wasn’t entirely accurate, but it was close. The truth was that, while he didn’t want to kill himself, he no longer really cared if he lived. When the dozen Nilfgaardian soldiers found him – drunk - in a bar in Gors Velen, he briefly contemplated drawing his blade against them all. But he reconsidered when he realized that he’d get the opportunity to confront the Emperor. He loathed the man and everything he represented. While Emhyr may not have killed Ciri himself, he had been, in Geralt’s opinion, one of her truest enemies. An enemy who, just like Avallac’h, just like the Wild Hunt, just like Philippa Eilhart and the rest of the sorceresses of the Lodge, had neither respected her nor viewed her as a person, but rather as a tool to be used for their own purposes. The Emperor, like the rest, had only wanted her for her special powers and for nothing else. They had not loved her, cared for her, been willing to die for her. 

Geralt had taken satisfaction in insulting the Emperor, and there was a small part of him that had hoped the insults would goad the man into a physical attack. While the guards had taken his swords, they had missed the knife hidden in his boot, and he would have loved to have driven it through the Emperor’s throat. He thought that calling the Emperor “Duny” would have done the trick. It was the name that Emhyr had used decades ago when he was a freakish monster, an affliction caused by a dark curse – a curse that was lifted only with the witcher’s help. The White Wolf doubted that he had been able to keep the look of disappointment off his face when he had realized that Emhyr wasn’t going to take the bait. Obviously, the Emperor’s sense of self-preservation had prevailed. The Emperor was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them, and attacking a witcher – no matter how hung-over – was a quick way to the grave. Geralt honestly didn’t know why he hadn’t taken out his knife and killed the bastard anyway. He wasn’t thinking clearly these days. He hadn’t been thinking clearly for quite some time now. He needed a drink, he thought to himself. 

oOo

Blood was running out of the witcher’s nose, but he had smile on his face – an eerie, blood-filled smile. His head snapped back as a hard fist struck his cheekbone, and while the force of the blow caused him to take a step back, he remained standing. He turned to face his attackers again, shook his head slowly, and grinned some more. 

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” he stated as blood dripped off his lower lip and into his beard, a beard now streaked red. 

“To hell with it, Lars. Let’s go. The freak’s insane. He’s not even defending himself,” said one of the three men standing in front of Geralt. 

The three had been beating on the witcher for the last five minutes. Each time that they had thought he couldn’t take any more, he’d rise slowly from the ground and stand again before them. Two of the men were spent – covered in sweat and breathing heavy, having exhausted themselves in a flurry of punches and kicks in the first few minutes. Only Lars seemed to have any energy left. 

After leaving the palace, Geralt had started a search for vodka. Having been in Vizima before, he quickly found a local tavern, bought a bottle, and began drinking in solitude. His mood grew fouler and more morose with each shot consumed. Now that he was no longer in the Emperor’s presence, the disdain he felt for the man and for the rest of the rotten world began to turn inward. He looked across the tavern and caught his reflection in the dark pane of glass of a nearby window. His eyes bore into his own. As he continued to stare at his own visage, he raised his mug of vodka in a mock salute. 

“To the incompetent screw-ups of the world,” he said to himself before draining the contents of the cup. 

A short time later, his mental self-flagellation was interrupted. As was the custom, it didn’t take long for three belligerent locals, with their sense of invincibility bolstered by alcohol and their common sense hindered by the same, to confront the witcher. 

“Your kind’s not wanted here, freak,” one stated with a sneer on his face.

Geralt knocked back another shot and looked at the three men standing in front of him. He nodded his head, his lips starting to form into a faint but very predatory smile. “Let’s head outside, shall we?” 

Nowhere between the table and the front door did the witcher make the conscious decision to simply take the three men’s thrashing, but as he was standing in front of them in the night air, a voice in his head said, “You deserve this.” And at that point, he had simply dropped his hands to his side. 

After watching the three men walk off into the darkness, he limped back into the tavern and returned to his table. He had some potions that would have eased the pain, but he chose not to take them. Instead, he grabbed his bottle of vodka and muttered to himself, “Now, where were we?”

oOo

Three days later, Geralt, out of both vodka and coin, decided to head north towards the Pontar River and the war front. Traditionally, both areas were rife with monsters - river basins because even monsters need water, and war fronts because of the battlefields full of corpses. Maybe he’d be able to find a contract for a beast that was either threatening or simply infringing upon civilization. He hoped so because a contract meant money; and money meant alcohol; and alcohol meant dulled memories.

He traveled on the main road out of Vizima towards the small city of Rinde, which was located just north of the Pontar. Just past where the road forked, with one branch heading to the town of Anchor, was a battlefield, but the witcher could tell that whatever skirmish occurred there happened several months ago. Even though he could easily detect the odor of death in the air, he saw neither any corpses nor any of the common scavengers of carrion – vultures and ghouls. What he smelled was the stench of blood soaked into the soil. Though the field looked picked clean, he still dismounted Roach and began walking slowly in a zigzag pattern, using his witcher senses to find any spare coins. After two hours, he had found sixteen orens. He knew deep down that what he was doing was pretty pathetic, but what the hell did he care. He now had enough coin that he could buy some booze. He just hoped he could make it to Rinde before all of the taverns closed. 

oOo

_Warning to those traveling between Rinde and Murivel. Something or someone has been attacking any and all travelers along the road, including merchants’ caravans. If anyone is brave enough to capture or kill said outlaw, then speak to Jacque at the Codpiece Inn. Everyone else should avoid that roadway with extreme prejudice – unless you’re a Black One, then go right ahead._

Geralt had read this potential contract on a notice board in the town of Rinde several hours before sunrise. He, in fact, had not arrived in town with any taverns still open for business. The Redanian army had burned the bridge spanning the Pontar in an effort to keep the Nilfgaardians on the southern, Temerian side of the river. It had, therefore, taken the witcher quite some time traversing the river’s banks in the darkness until he could find a suitable place for him and Roach to cross – a place that wasn’t too wide, where the current wasn’t too strong, and where there were no creatures lurking below the surface of the pitch-black water. Geralt may not have particularly cared if he lived or died, but he didn’t want to lead his horse unnecessarily into harm’s way. She hadn’t done anything to deserve that. 

The Codpiece Inn, located on the banks of the Pontar, was famous for its cold ale and, naturally, for its fried catfish – because, as everyone knows, the catfish is the king of the Pontar. The inn got its name from an abnormally large, dented metal codpiece that hung above the fireplace mantel, placed there over a century ago by the inn’s original owner – a twenty-year old ruffian by the name of Karlech Blenham. He had grown up an orphan on the streets of Tretogor, and he had quickly learned the rules of survival – discreetly nicking food and other goods from unsuspecting shopkeepers, discerning which of the city’s fences were the most trustworthy, evading the equally-untrustworthy watchmen and constables, and sleeping with a shiv in hand each night in the dangerous back alleys of the city’s dingiest neighborhoods. Young Karlech had aspirations of one day leaving that life behind and becoming a respectable businessman, but how was a juvenile delinquent to achieve such a dream? The official story was that teenage Karlech decided to enlist into the Redanian army during one of its many, long ago – and now mostly forgotten – wars, and during one battle, his codpiece was on the receiving end of a particularly vicious blow from a Kaedweni war hammer. Karlech claimed that, while serving his country, he squirreled away virtually every oren of his pay, which he later used to build his tavern. It was an endearing story and a shining example of the “Redanian dream,” that anyone – regardless of status – could through hard work, commitment, and sacrifice achieve success. However, no citizen of Rinde ever bothered to do the math – to determine just how the meager earnings of a lowly private in the infantry were sufficient to pay for all the materials and manpower needed to build the two-story inn. But every soldier – especially those fighting on enemy soil - knows that to the victor go the spoils, even if those spoils have to be hidden and smuggled away. Till his dying day, old Mr. Blenham – with a gleam in his eye – never tired of telling the story of how the codpiece “had protected his jewels.” 

It was this inn that the witcher, after reading the contract, approached in the late-night darkness. To the right of the tavern was a small corral with some covered stalls. Geralt led Roach over to a stall and then noticed bales of hay stacked in a corner. He took a couple of handfuls of the dried grass and placed it in a nearby trough, and as his mare ate her breakfast, he removed her tack, grabbed several combs and brushes from his saddle-bags, and began removing caked mud, thistles, and burrs caught in her hair. After grooming his mount, he knelt down in the dirt beside her and meditated until, two hours later, he heard voices and footsteps coming from within the tavern. 

The Butcher of Blaviken entered the front door of the inn and scanned his surroundings, his eyes never bothering to look at the codpiece above the mantel since he already knew of its legend. Despite the early hour, there were already a handful of customers present. A man and woman were sitting at a table for two, staring longingly at each other and talking in soft whispers, while two dwarves were walking down the stairs from the second floor – yawning and rubbing the sleep from their eyes. A long counter was to the left, behind which leaned a young inn keep, smacking loudly as he munched lazily on an apple, which, in the witcher’s opinion, made him look like an asshole. To the right of the counter were swinging saloon-style doors that, the witcher knew, led to the kitchen. Even if he hadn’t known, the aroma of frying meat wafting from that direction would have been an obvious clue. Geralt made eye-contact with the inn keep behind the counter and approached him. He looked to be in his early twenties and was sporting a very thin, wispy mustache. 

“I’d like to speak with Jacque. He around?”

“Whew! Gramps, don’t believe in baths?” the barkeep asked with a smirk on his face. “Smells like you’ve been shacking up with a grave hag.”

The monster-slayer, stone-faced, didn’t say a word. He just peered into the young man’s eyes. 

“No? Nothing? Not even a little grin?” asked the inn keep, his smirk disappearing. “Alright…well, Jacque owns the Inn. He usually gets here right after we open.”

Geralt gave the slightest nod of his head. “Let him know that I’m here about the contract. And…I’d like to get a bottle,” he stated as he dropped his handful of orens onto the bar top. 

The barkeep snorted and his smirk returned. “The only bottle you could get for that would be a bottle of piss.”

The witcher didn’t return the man’s smile this time either. He just breathed in deeply and then exhaled very slowly. “Just give me vodka – however much that will buy.”

“Kind of early for that, ain’t it, gramps?” the young man asked, the smile still on his face. 

The Butcher of Blaviken looked hard at the barkeep. “I’ll tell you what it’s not too early for. It’s not too early for a beatin’.”

The man’s smirk immediately fell from his face, and he swallowed hard as he quickly reached for a jug. He poured two fingers of vodka into a cup and placed it on the counter in front of the White Wolf. As he turned away, Geralt easily heard him mumble, “Should have known the mutant wouldn’t have a sense of humor.”

Immediately, Geralt snapped his left hand out, grabbed the man’s collar and pulled him backwards while simultaneously twisting the man’s body and slamming his head onto the bar. The witcher’s right hand was roughly pressing the left side of the man’s face into the wooden countertop. The entire inn had gone silent at the display. The only sounds the witcher could hear were the man’s heart thumping in his chest and the crackle and pop of frying food coming from the nearby kitchen.

The White Wolf leaned over the squirming inn keep. “That’s right. I am a mutant…and the most dangerous wretch you’ll ever meet.” The witcher’s voice was barely above a whisper. “So, it would serve you well not to call me names…cause that hurts my feelings. And, then…I might just have the urge to hurt you back. So, here’s some advice – until I leave this place, don’t speak to me; don’t look at me; in fact, don’t even think about me…cause this mutant freak can read your mind. Understood?”

The barman did his best to nod his head despite it being in Geralt’s vice-like grip.

“Good morning,” suddenly came a friendly voice from behind. “It looks like you’re none too pleased with my employee.”

The witcher turned his head slightly to view the newcomer out of the corner of his eye. 

“Just instilling some wisdom.”

The newcomer laughed. “Interesting method. And what’s the lesson for today?”

“Be careful who you insult.”

The man’s eyes shifted from the witcher down to the barkeep.

“Jakob, now why in the world would you insult a witcher? I knew you had shit for brains, but…really?” the man trailed off, just shaking his head. “Please forgive Jakob, Master Witcher. He possesses not a shred of common sense…and compounds the problem by having delusions that others find his sense of humor charming.”

The witcher turned back to Jakob and then lifted him up so that their noses were just inches apart. “View yourself a comedian? Suggest you learn to gauge your audience better, boy. Now…go away.”

Upon being released, Jakob scampered into the kitchen, leaving the saloon doors swinging back and forth in his wake.

The witcher turned to face Jakob’s employer. “You must be Jacque.”

“Indeed. And given the swords on your back, you must be here about the contract.” 

After getting a nod from the witcher, Jacque pointed to a nearby table. “Let’s talk business.” After the two sat down, the owner sighed and began, “I don’t know what happened, but I do know Jakob so…I’d like to apologize for whatever he did or said. 

The witcher answered with a slight nod of his head.

“He’s my sister’s eldest,” continued Jacque, “and as the patriarch of the family, I feel responsible to help her, and no one else in town will employ him. He seems to have a gift for, well, rubbing people the wrong way. He’s been begging me for a while to work the counter, but…looks like I need put him back to mucking the stalls again,” he ended with a rueful smile.

Geralt simply stared at the inn’s owner and then asked, “Why tell me any this?”

Jacque shrugged. “A man is judged by the company he keeps – by the men he employs. And I need for you to solve my problem. Therefore, I need for you to be willing to accept the contract. You’ll be less likely to do business with me if I lose respect in your eyes due to young Jakob’s lack of decorum.”

The White Wolf shook his head. “Respect’s got nothing to do with it. If I only took contracts from people I liked, I’d never work. The only thing that matters is – do you have the coin?” His eyes then shifted to the bar where his cup was tipped over. “That, and…the two shots of vodka I paid for.”

Jacque smiled. “Not a problem, Master Witcher.”  
  
After getting as many details of the attacks – which wasn’t much – from Jacque and then haggling over the price of the contract, the witcher took off east out of Rinde along the solitary road toward Murivel. In his saddlebag was a bottle of vodka – both a gesture of goodwill and a “retainer” on the contract from Jacque. Within a quarter of an hour, the landscape changed and turned into a moderately dense forest, with overhanging branches covering the majority of the road. The witcher took that into account and figured that whatever he was pursuing probably wasn’t a flying beast since a winged creature would have trouble maneuvering through the thick canopy of the trees in order to attack any travelers. 

Less than an hour later, his witcher’s senses began to detect evidence of the attacks. The first indicator was the sound of aggressive beasts. To Geralt, it sounded like the growls of wild dogs or perhaps wolves. As he kept riding, he caught the distinctive scent of blood and decayed flesh, and, then, he came around a slight bend in the road, looked ahead and saw a pack of dogs – perhaps six to eight – roaming to and fro. Near the pack were two partially destroyed wagons. One was lying on its side and the other was tipped towards the ground due to a missing front wheel. There was also quite of bit of merchandise still in the wagon and scattered upon the road. Some of the packages looked like they’d been ripped open – possibly by the canines. The witcher would have to investigate further, but the fact that the merchants’ goods hadn’t been taken was a strong clue that this was not the work of any guerilla Scoia’tael unit. Typically, the elves and other non-humans would take anything left over after their attacks as the spoils of battle. Of course, he, also, thought it unlikely that Scoia’tael were the culprits given that they were virtually non-existent these days. That said, he didn’t believe the wild dogs were the initial attackers, either. They simply weren’t capable of causing the kind of damage to the wagons that he was seeing. 

Geralt dismounted his mare still quite a distance away from the wreckage. He calmly surveyed the scene, exhaled deeply, and then slowly headed towards the pack. He made no attempt at stealth but simply walked right down the middle of the road, holding three Grapeshot bombs in his hands. As soon as the dogs noticed his presence, he threw the three explosives in their direction in quick succession. While the incendiary devices were still in the air, he took off sprinting towards the overturned wagon. When the bombs exploded, chaos ensued. Shrapnel and fire flew in all directions, shredding and burning most of the canines. The witcher hurdled a couple of dogs and then leapt up onto the side of the tipped-over wagon, standing a good five feet above the ground. He caught his balance on the wobbly wagon, and then he grabbed a Devil’s Puffball bomb and threw it towards three dogs that were below him, jumping and snapping at his feet. As poison filled the air and affected the beasts below, he skipped backwards along the eight-foot long wooden plank to get out of the poisonous explosion’s range. At that point, only two of the eight mutts were still standing, but even they were foaming at the mouth and bleeding from their eyes, obvious effects of the poisonous gas. He pulled his crossbow from his back and calmly shot them in the head, essentially ending the attack. A few in the pack were lying on the ground, whimpering in pain. Geralt hopped off the wagon railing, drew his steel sword, and swiftly ended their misery.

The monster-slayer scanned the area. Fifty yards ahead, along the road, he saw another damaged wagon. Past it, he could see another. The beast – whatever it was – had obviously attacked multiple merchants carrying their goods. The witcher couldn’t see or detect any human corpses in the area. Nor could he see any horses – alive or dead – in the vicinity either. They had either run off or been killed and carried off. The lack of bodies made the witcher think that this unknown beast was killing for the sake of food and not simply out of protecting its territory. He also realized that the monster was, obviously, taking the corpses elsewhere to eat them, as there were no remains to be seen along the road. 

The White Wolf started investigating the ground for clues, but the process was complicated because the wild dogs had destroyed and contaminated much of the evidence in the area. Eventually, on the north side of the road, he found a trail of blood and several, very large footprints. The tracks appeared to be from some type of troll, but Geralt was confused by their size. As he was looking downward towards the forest floor, his eyes were drawn to Ciri’s wolf head medallion that he kept tied to the belt loop of his trousers. He grabbed it with his left hand and lifted it from where it usually hung against his upper thigh. He held it at waist level, staring down at the memento, with a torrent of memories running through his mind. 

The witcher stood silent and still, lost in thought, for quite some time. Eventually, he exhaled deeply and lifted his eyes from the medallion. As he dropped it to his side, he whistled for Roach. His mare dutifully approached her master, and Geralt stood in front of her, petting her nose and jaw. After several minutes, he walked to her side, reached beneath her, and unbuckled his saddle. He removed it and the horse blanket, carried them over to the side of the road, and dropped them behind a tree. He then returned to Roach and removed the bridle. He looked into her eyes and petted her some more.

“You’ve been a great horse…and a great friend. Always loyal. I couldn’t have asked for more.” He then sighed heavily. “Take care of yourself, girl.” 

After a final rub of his hand along the mare’s neck, the witcher turned back toward the trail of blood and footprints and slowly followed it into the woods. 

oOo

Author’s Note:  
If you have suicidal thoughts due to either depression or severe grief, please know that there is help available. You can have hope for a better future.   
The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255.


	2. Chapter 2

Book 1: The Wolf Awakens  
Chapter 2

Geralt was peering at the largest troll that he’d ever seen in his one hundred years. It was easily three to four feet taller and a foot broader than any other that the witcher had ever come across. He wondered at how old it must be. 

He had followed the trail of blood and footprints through the forest until he’d come to small clearing – a clearing that contained a cave entrance, out of which exited this giant-sized rock troll. The witcher – now possessing not a shred of self-preservation – had neither applied any pre-battle oils to his sword nor consumed any ability-enhancing decoctions or potions. He simply began walking slowly – and without caution – towards the beast. More so, during his approach, he made the decision not to use any of his Signs during the fight. 

“May the best monster win,” the Butcher of Blaviken said to himself as he drew his silver sword.

Geralt immediately took a step to his right as the troll, without any warning, launched a small boulder in his direction. He somersaulted forward to get closer to his adversary, and as he came to his feet, he slashed the troll across the chest. He used the momentum of the strike to twist his body into pirouette, and as he was finishing the 360-degree turn, his blade struck again – this time across the monster’s soft belly. The monster-killer immediately reversed the momentum of his sword and then used a backhanded motion to slice the blade across the troll’s left thigh. The White Wolf had drawn blood three times in the span of a second. In response, the monster bellowed and turned his back to his attacker - just as the witcher was bringing downward a powerful, two-handed strike. When the silver sword struck the troll’s hard, rock-like back, the weapon made an unmistakable, sickening sound, which, for just the slightest moment, distracted the witcher. It was a sound that all witchers knew and that all dreaded. The troll took advantage of the distraction, immediately counter-attacked, and landed a massive, backhanded blow, which crushed muscle tissue and fractured bone. The powerful force of the punch knocked Geralt through the air at least fifteen feet. 

The witcher – with a grimace - slowly stood and then began walking backwards to give himself more distance from the troll. He then quickly looked down at his sword. What he saw made him pause. The inspection revealed that one edge of the blade was severely chipped. More importantly, originating and spreading out from that damaged edge was a large crack that ran in several directions throughout the metal blade. The sword was now virtually worthless. 

‘Just like me,’ he thought to himself. 

He looked up at the troll, a good thirty feet away. Suddenly, the monster pounded its chest with its fists, let out a roar, and then charged toward Geralt.

“Time to die,” growled the witcher, and then he, too, started running - towards the charging beast.

As the two combatants collided, three things seemed to happen all at once. Geralt felt the tip of his sword piercing the troll’s abdomen; he heard a loud crack as the blade snapped in half; and then his vision went black as he was bowled over and knocked unconscious by the rampaging monster.

oOo

The witcher came to with a jolt, his body tense, and pain instantly flooded his senses. Looking upward, he saw a few puffy clouds passing across a blue sky, and the smell of death filled his nostrils. After taking a quick, mental assessment of his body to discover the various locations of his injuries, he sighed deeply, lowered his head back down to the ground, and closed his eyes.

“Son of a bitch… I’m still alive? Just how pathetic am I? I can’t even die right,” he berated himself.

Geralt, indeed, wasn’t dead, and, therefore, he was in desperate need of some healing potions. With a grunt, he rolled over gingerly and got to his knees, his left arm instinctively protecting his damaged torso. It was at that point that he noticed Roach a few yards away, munching on some grass and occasionally eyeballing the witcher. Geralt shook his head slightly at the thought of her loyalty. 

“Not very smart, Roach…following me,” he said, looking at his horse. “Faithful, but not very smart.” 

She always came to him when he called for her and, apparently, even when he didn’t.   
  
The monster-slayer’s eyes then drifted downward to see his shattered silver sword laying nearby. There was less than two feet of actual blade attached to the handle so he swiveled his head, scanning the area to find the rest of the silver blade. It was then that he saw the troll’s body on the ground several yards away, and, strangely, there was a small butterfly resting on the troll’s shoulder. The little insect flapped its colorful wings and then flew off into the trees with the witcher staring at it the entire time. Eventually, his focus was brought back to the troll, and he was suddenly surprised that he could hear a faint, slow heartbeat coming from the monster. He limped over – the pain causing him to hiss through his teeth - and knelt beside the dying troll, which was lying on its side. He saw the broken blade of his sword protruding from the beast’s belly. The grass below the monster was soaked with blood, but only a small amount was now flowing from the wound. His eyes moved upward and connected with those of the troll. He saw unmistakable sadness in them.

“Hoooommme,” came a gargled sound from the monster’s mouth.

“Home?” asked the witcher, his brow furrowed in confusion. 

The troll continued looking Geralt in the eye and gave a slight nod of its head. 

“Hoomme,” it stated simply again.

“Are you in pain?” The witcher wasn’t sure why he’d asked the question.

The troll gave an almost imperceptible shake of its head. At that point, there was little that the witcher could do for the troll. So, he just knelt there next to it looking into its eyes – almost as if sitting vigil. He could hear the creature’s heart rate begin to slow significantly. 

After a few moments, the witcher thought about the troll’s last words. 

“Do you want to go home?” Geralt asked. 

The troll blinked its eyes and gave a small nod. 

“Do you mean your cave?” 

This time a small shake of the head was the answer. 

“Do you…” but the witcher didn’t finish the question as he heard the troll breathe its last and saw the light fade from its eyes. 

Geralt didn’t immediately rise but continued to kneel next to the troll, lost in thought. He wondered - if the cave wasn’t it - just where the troll’s true home was. And he wondered about the “who” associated with this mysterious home. Geralt knew that the idea of home wasn’t simply a physical location or a place to live. Home was strongly connected to family and to loved ones. He looked down at the dead troll and found it ironic that this monster, obviously, thought of some place and probably of someone as “home” while he had doubts if he considered any place home anymore. With Vesemir dead, he wasn’t sure if he even considered Kaer Morhen his home any longer – if he ever did. And if “Home is where your loved ones are,” then Geralt realized that, ultimately, his home was wherever Ciri was. 

Thinking of Ciri made him recall the last time that he’d seen her. He could still visualize her walking into the elven tower on the island of Undvik. He had tried talking her out of doing so, but he hadn’t explicitly forbidden her from entering the tower to confront the apocalyptic White Frost. While he hadn’t liked her decision, he had respected her right to make whatever choices she wanted regarding her life. She may have been his daughter, but she was his adult daughter. He certainly didn’t appreciate anyone telling him how to live his life so he had given his daughter the same respect and courtesy. And it was then that something, suddenly, clicked in the witcher’s mind. 

“There’s nothing you could have done to prevent her from facing the White Frost. She was committed to doing so. Even if you had disregarded her right to make her own decision and had tried to physically stop her, with her power, she could have easily escaped. 

“And she died to save you. She died so that you could live. If you truly respect her, then don’t waste her sacrifice.” 

The witcher lowered his head, suddenly ashamed of how he’d been acting since her death. After a moment, a look of resolve appeared on his face and he nodded his head to himself. He realized that, if the roles were reversed and he had died for her, he would want Ciri to keep on living - to pursue a life of joy.

He nodded his head again. “Okay…I’ll stop seeking death - for you, Ciri,” he said with determination.

The witcher looked back down at the troll. He almost laughed, though there was no smile on his face. He shook his head in amazement at the absurdity of life – that, of all things, it was a troll’s dying words that brought him out of his near-suicidal mindset. That it was this monster’s desire for home that mysteriously caused a change in his perspective about Ciri’s death. Because, truly, a shift in perspective was the only change that had happened to the witcher in the last few minutes. His circumstances certainly hadn’t changed. Ciri was still dead. Vesemir was still dead. He was still hung-over, broke, beaten up, and alone. But, yet, he was undeniably different now than when he had awoken from his unconscious state less than half an hour ago.

With that thought in mind, the witcher made a decision. He wasn’t going to remove the beast’s head, as a trophy, and take it back to Rinde in order to collect the reward. Even if it didn’t make any sense, Geralt thought that he owed the troll something – certainly something more than having his corpse beheaded. It took a while for him to return to the road where his saddle and his potions – located in the saddlebags - were stored. Over an hour later, after the health-rejuvenation elixir began to take effect and he felt that he’d be able to actually climb aboard his horse, he put the saddle and bridle back onto Roach and rode back to the clearing. He grabbed a short shovel from his gear and began the very long process of digging a grave large enough for the giant troll. He wasn’t sure why he had chosen to dig a grave for the monster instead of simply cremating him with his Igni Sign, but there was something healing in the endeavor. Perhaps, it was simply because, for the first time in two months, he was doing something more meaningful and productive than getting drunk. Possibly, it was because digging the grave was a sign of respect for the troll, and the witcher hadn’t shown respect to anyone – to Ciri, to himself, or to anyone else - in quite some time. Or, maybe, it was because the troll’s grave was symbolic – a memorial to commemorate the death of Geralt’s desire to die. And with that, a new desire to find a reason to live. But regardless of the reasons, the witcher knew it was something that he needed to do. 

Much later, after the sun had set beyond the Great Sea and the moon was high overhead, Geralt stood at the edge of the grave with the full bottle of vodka in his hand. He uncorked the bottle and began pouring the contents out onto the mound of dirt at his feet. Once the bottle was empty, he breathed in deeply and slowly exhaled.

“Wherever you are, troll…I hope you’re home.” 

oOo

_Aedirn; October 1272_

With a thunder-like clap, a ten-foot high, oval shaped ring appeared in a tranquil, verdant meadow. Out of this fiery-looking portal walked a remarkable woman. Philippa Eilhart was remarkable for many reasons - her powerful magical ability; her in-depth knowledge of the arcane branches of magic, including polymorphism; her beauty and her impressive figure that, like almost every other witch, she liked to flaunt; and the fact that, despite having had her eyes gouged out by the king of Redania, she was still one of the most dangerous people walking the planet. That last detail was a testament to perhaps her most remarkable trait – her perseverance. Despite being the most wanted woman in the Northern kingdoms – thanks to being the object of King Radovid’s hatred – and despite numerous attempts on her life, she was clearly still alive. This ability to persevere was directly attributed to her incredible cunning. Of course, it was also her ruthless cunning – and scheming – that had, ultimately, put her in harm’s way in the first place. 

With her dark-brown hair twisted into a single braid falling halfway down her back and wearing an emerald-green, ankle-length, form-fitting dress that revealed nearly four inches of cleavage, she walked slowly towards an isolated cottage on the outskirts of the town of Vengerberg, the capital of Aedirn. She sensed and then walked through a magical barrier that was surrounding the cottage, and as she approached the front door, it opened on its own.

“Please, do enter, Philippa,” came a regal voice from the interior. 

The voice belonged to Yennefer, a beautiful, raven-haired sorceress, dressed in a black ensemble. She wore high-heeled, thigh-high, leather boots; skin-tight crushed velvet trousers; and an equally snug top – trimmed in leather - over a white, silk blouse. And, as customary, around her neck was a black choker, adorned with a star-shaped, obsidian pendant.

The two women approached, paused as they slowly observed each other’s attire and appearance, and then gave the other a perfunctory kiss on the cheek that was actually several inches short of ever touching skin. 

“So, Phil, to what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Yennefer after they’d both gotten comfortable in her den.

“Yenna, I have simply come to visit my dear friend. I’ve been concerned about your well-being since Ciri’s death. Though, I must say that, perhaps, I shouldn’t have. You look exactly the same as you always have.” Philippa smiled, but that meant nothing. If dead men could talk, they’d testify that there was cruelty in her smile.

“You are much too kind. And I adore your new look. The darkened glasses are quite becoming. Much more so than the blindfold. It’s a shame that you still haven’t been able to completely reconstruct your eyes.” Yennefer smiled back.

“Yes, well…I have been able to restore my vision. I’ll finish the rest soon. Thank you for your concern.”

“Truly fascinating,” said Yennefer. “So, now that the pleasantries are out of the way, do tell – why are you really here?”

“Very well,” replied Philippa in a clipped tone. “Quite simply, you are needed. You’ve been here, hiding out from the world for months now, but enough is enough. I know that you may still be grieving the death of Ciri and…moping over the witcher, but - and I know that this may sound cold - life moves on.”  
  
Yennefer narrowed her eyes. 

“I respect you too much to treat you as if you are weak and fragile. You are a strong and powerful sorceress. You are fully capable of mourning for Ciri and still being a major player in the world’s events.”

“Well, well, resorting to flattery. Things must be desperate.” 

“Indeed. The war is not going as planned for Emperor Emhyr.”

Yennefer laughed. “As if you truly care what happens to Nilfgaard. Besides, he has you, what other sorceress could he possibly need?”

“It’s true. Nilfgaard’s fate doesn’t, ultimately, concern me. But the fate of magic does.”

Yennefer furrowed her brow but remained quiet so Philippa continued. 

“The Empire’s push into Redania has completely stalled. To my – and the Emperors’ - dismay, Radovid – the little shit - is proving to possess a modicum of skill in military strategy.”

Given the sorceress’ deep contempt towards King Radovid, it was obvious that this minor compliment was, in actuality, a vast understatement.

“Truly interesting. And this concerns me – and the fate of magic – exactly how?”

“Please, Yennefer, don’t feign ignorance. It’s beneath you. You know quite well that if Nilfgaard fails and is forced to fall back to south of the Yaruga, then Radovid won’t simply allow the old kingdoms to reform. He’s already conquered Kaedwen. There would be nothing to stop him from swallowing up an already defeated Temeria, Cidaris, Brugge…and Aedirn. Given his hatred of all things magical…well, we simply cannot allow him control of the northern third of the Continent.”

Yennefer sighed. She’d had her fill of wars and politics. Because, really, after decades – maybe centuries – of sorceresses’ plotting and machinations, what had it really changed? The magic users’ place in the world was virtually no different and no safer now than it had been a century ago. Yennefer had come to realize that there were more important things in life than the constant political maneuvering and power-plays that Philippa so obviously relished. Things like – then, she stopped, shaking her head slightly, not wanting to think about it all again.

“Philippa, surely the other sorceresses of the Lodge are sufficient. I can’t imagine -” 

“The Lodge is dead, Yenna,” Philippa interrupted.

It took all of Yennefer’s composure to keep her mouth from dropping open at that piece of news.

“Not all, but…Sabrina, Sile, Keira, and, now, Assire and Rita. And -”

“Rita, too?”

Philippa nodded gravely. 

“Not Rita,” she whispered to herself. “The whoresons.” 

“Indeed. And with Triss having fled to Kovir, and Francesca and Ida refusing to leave Dol Blathanna…that leaves just three of us.”

Out of all the deaths, that of Margarita Laux-Antille stung Yennefer the most for Rita really wasn’t quite like the rest. She’d harbored no personal aspirations of ruling countries. She’d held no ambitions of gaining political power. Her primary desire was simply to run a school, to pass on the amazing and exciting possibilities of magic to younger generations of sorceresses. And to do so free from the fear of persecution. She seemed to genuinely and simply want what was best for “magic.” Her major fault was, perhaps, that she trusted Philippa too much - just blindly following the witch from Montecalvo’s plans and schemes without ever truly being skeptical of her personal motivations or simply just questioning if there was a better way. That had never been the case for Yennefer.

The raven-haired sorceress was quiet for some time. She began looking around her small cottage. She noticed the romance novel, opened and cover up, resting on the end table by her chair. Her eyes roamed over to one of her lab tables to the small cauldron that was on a low simmer – a cauldron filled with her magical face cream to hide the wrinkles around her eyes. She observed a light layer of dust on the books of one of her shelves. She looked at the solitary bowl and spoon that she’d left out on her kitchen table from that morning’s breakfast. Finally, she sighed ever so slightly and then brought her eyes up to meet Philippa’s tinted lenses. 

“Fine. What does ‘magic’ need of me?”

oOo

_Northeastern Kaedwen; December 1272_

Eskel rode up to the front gate of Kaer Morhen – the stronghold of the witchers from the Wolf School guild - and was surprised to see that it had been repaired. The gate, along with much of the fortress, had been severely damaged the past summer when the Wild Hunt had attacked in an attempt to capture Ciri. With Vesemir dead and with knowledge that Lambert would never return, that left only one person who would have taken the effort to restore the keep to a functional status, and that thought put a smile on the dark-haired witcher’s face. He called out Geralt’s name several times but to no avail. Eskel sighed, tied Scorpion’s reins to the front gate, and then began the long trek towards a hidden passage on the backside of the keep. That didn’t dampen his mood, though. He was now looking forward to seeing his “brother.”

Twenty minutes later, Eskel was inside the fortress and could hear very faint grunting sounds. He followed the noise to the pendulums, where he found the White Wolf training. He was performing a one-handed handstand, with his sword in his right hand, held out to his side for balance. The pendulum was swinging back and forth, and as it swung toward the witcher, he would bend his elbow to lower his torso, while at the same time pivoting his entire body a quarter turn and spreading his legs so that the pendulum would pass in between them. Once it had swung back, he’d press himself upward, reversing the process and returning to his original, vertical position. He kept this up until the pendulum finally lost its momentum. At which point, he began executing one armed, full body presses with his feet still above his head. Eskel stopped counting after Geralt hit twenty repetitions. Geralt’s physical abilities never ceased to amaze Eskel. While he believed himself to be the White Wolf’s equal in swordsmanship and to, possibly, even surpass him in Sign intensity, he was no match for Geralt’s strength, balance, reflexes, and the like. In fact, no witcher was. 

Eskel called out to his friend. “You know, a real witcher could do that with his weak arm, too.”

Geralt, still upside down, smiled and completed one more repetition. 

“This is my weak arm,” he replied as he dismounted the pylon, his feet hitting the ground with the grace of a cat. 

The two witchers greeted each other with a handshake and a slap on the shoulder. 

“Sorry that I left the gate down, but I didn’t think I’d have any visitors. Last time we talked, you said you weren’t ever going to return here.” 

“Yeah, well…old habits die hard…” Eskel responded with a smile. 

“…So, make damn-well sure they’re good habits,” they said in unison, mimicking one of Vesemir’s oft-repeated tenets.

“We can talk later,” stated Geralt with a grin. “Right now, pull your sword. It’s been a while since I swung my blades at an actual opponent.”

“You’re on,” answered Eskel.

“I’ve got to warn you, though. Except for when I was making repairs to this place, I’ve spent almost every waking moment in the last four months training. I’ve even come up with a few new tricks.” 

“Is that right?”

“Yeah,” replied Geralt with a smirk. “You’ll be shocked.”

oOo

Later that evening, Geralt and Eskel sat out on a balcony, blowing smoke from their pipes upward toward a night sky full of twinkling stars. Between them was a chimenea, its small flames doing just enough to make bearable the cold, winter air. They’d been catching up on the last six months of each other’s lives. It had taken Geralt an hour to summarize the events since May, starting with when he and Ciri had left Kaer Morhen to track down Imlerith – Vesemir’s killer - and ending with his epiphany in the woods east of Rinde. 

“After burying the troll, I came here for no other reason than I needed a new silver sword. I went down to the armory, picked one out, and then spent the rest of the day cleaning and sharpening it. When I was done, for whatever reason, I decided to clean and sharpen every sword down there. And, then, the next thing I know, I’m repairing anything and everything I could in the keep. Still not even sure why I did it, but…it took me months to make enough repairs on this place to make it secure again.”

“Well, you’ve done a helluva job,” said Eskel. “Vesemir, he…he would’ve been proud.”

Upon hearing his mentor’s name, Geralt turned his head and made eye contact with Eskel.

“He wouldn’t have admitted it,” added Eskel, ‘but still…”

The two witchers continued looking at each other for a moment before they, eventually, nodded their heads.

“Yeah,” agreed Geralt, and then he let out a sigh. “Yeah.”

He, then, turned away and looked up into the night sky, taking a long draw on his pipe. 

After that, they sat quietly for a few moments, smoking and alone with their thoughts. Eventually, Geralt broke the silence. 

“You know, I think the repairs were as much for me as for the keep, itself.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Eskel.

“The more that I fixed this old place up, the more motivation I seemed to find…to get back into the habit of training every day. I think that…just having something productive to do was very beneficial for me. After killing the Crone, I was on the Path for weeks, unable to find a contract, with nothing to do but drink and wallow in my misery. The hate that I felt for myself seemed to grow everyday…so it was good to be here, to be able to put my negative energy into something useful.” 

Eskel nodded in understanding. “I’m really sorry, Geralt. Sorry to hear about Ciri. And I’m sorry that you struggled so much. I wish you’d sought out a friend – me, or Lambert, or Dandelion.” 

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Really? Lambert’s solution would have been to get drunk and bitter, which is what I did and which clearly wasn’t the right choice. And Dandelion? He would have suggested that whores were the key to getting past my grief. Lots and lots of whores.” 

Eskel laughed. “Too true. Then…I wish you would’ve sought me out. It wasn’t good for you to try and go through that alone.”

“Eskel, I’m a witcher. We’re always alone. You of all people know that.”

“Right…right,” he said with a small nod. “Well…compared to how you described your state this summer, you seem better now.”

“Yeah…I’m better. I don’t know if I’d say that I’m ‘good,’ but I am better.” 

“What’s keeping you from being ‘good?’”

“Too many questions and too few answers.”

“About?”

“Life, death, the meaning of it all.”  
  
“Oh, that’s it?” joked Eskel.

“Yeah,” Geralt replied with a grin. 

“So…what exactly are your questions? 

The White Wolf let out a deep breath. “I’ve always said and believed that it was destiny that made me a witcher. Destiny is what brought me to Kaer Morhen as a child. It’s why I went through the trials and the mutations. It’s why I’ve been on the Path for almost a century. It’s what brought Ciri into my life. For as long as I can remember, that’s simply how I explained the events of my life. I haven’t really questioned it. But, now, I’m not so sure anymore. I’m starting to believe that there’s something more.”

“What do you mean – that destiny wants you to be more than a witcher or that it’s not actually ‘destiny’ that made you one?”

Geralt shook his head. “I’ll be honest, I’m not sure myself. That’s why I’m so confused.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Do you believe that we – witchers - make any real difference in this world?”

Eskel nodded. “Yeah, I do. You don’t?”

Geralt shook his head slightly. “I know that we provide a needed service. But, sometimes, I feel like, in the grand scheme of things, what I do doesn’t really matter – that nothing I do truly matters. After I pick up a contract, there’s the satisfaction of pursuing the beast and then the exhilaration of the battle. Afterwards, there’s even a feeling of fulfillment or accomplishment. But, eventually, sometimes quickly, all of those feelings are replaced by…an emptiness. It’s as if there is something inside of me that longs for…more, something else. Something that being a witcher can’t satisfy.”

“I can understand that. Sometimes, I feel that way, too. But, when I start thinking that, I’ll remind myself of a conversation I had a long time ago in a tavern in Metinna, sharing a drink with a schoolteacher. We were talking about this very topic - the meaning of life and how sometimes it can seem futile, and he told me a parable that has stuck with me all these decades later. In the story, an older man is walking along the beach after a storm. The storm and waves had washed up thousands of starfish onto the beach. As he’s walking along, he sees a young boy on the beach, picking up the starfish and throwing them one at a time back into the ocean. The old guy walks out to the boy and says, ‘Look at all these starfish. There’s got to be thousands of them. Do you honestly think that you – by yourself – can make a difference?’ The little boy looks at him, and then bends down, picks up a starfish and throws it into the sea. He says, ‘I don’t know, sir, but I know that I just made a difference to that one.’ 

“And that’s why I think what we do matters. I, honestly, don’t know how much of a difference that I’m making in the grand scheme of things, but each time I can save a village or a family or even just one person from some dangerous beast, then I’m making a difference for that person. And that’s enough for me.”

Geralt nodded his head. “Hmm, I actually like that story. Although, if the parable were true to real life, then, a week later, another storm hit and all those starfish that he’d thrown into the ocean simply got washed back onto shore.” 

Eskel smirked. “I’m not sure who’s more cynical – you or Lambert.”

Geralt looked over at his friend. “You say ‘cynic.’ I say ‘realist.’ And Lambert is clearly more jaded than I am. He would have claimed that the storm also wiped out the boy’s home and family, as well.”

Eskel laughed. “Yeah, he would.”

After a moment of silence, Geralt continued. “I see what you’re saying. But, ultimately, from an eternal perspective, what we do here in this life – what anyone does here in this life – only truly matters if there is life-after-death, right?”

“How so?”

“Well, if, when we die, that’s it – our body, mind, and soul simply cease to exist, then, in my humble opinion, it doesn’t ultimately matter how we live out our lives. Not if we take our eyes off of ourselves for a moment and start looking at this world and this universe from a big picture.”

Eskel nodded. “I’d agree, but that’s a pretty big ‘if.’ Especially, since we don’t truly know what happens to us when we die. But my question is why does ‘ceasing to exist’ even bother you? I mean, it’s not as if you’d be around to care. In fact, wouldn’t many – if not most - people claim that that would actually be pretty liberating?”

“Liberating? In what way?”

“Well, if we simply cease to exist when we die, then that means that there are no eternal repercussions for how we live, right? We can live ‘good’ lives, ‘bad’ lives, or indifferent lives, and it doesn’t matter. We wouldn’t be accountable to anyone with regards to what we’ve done. We could go through our lives as if this world is nothing but our own personal candy shop – taking and eating whatever we want. A lot of people would love that.”

“Hell, most people already do live their lives that way.”

“Exactly. So, why does it bother you?”

“You said it yourself. If that’s the case, then how we live our lives doesn’t matter. The man who lives a virtuous, upright life is no better off than the man of deceit and dishonor. They both end up in the exact same place. If there is simply ‘nothing’ after we die, then…our lives, from an eternal perspective, are meaningless. And that’s what bothers me. I want my life to matter. I want Ciri’s life to matter. Most of all, I want her sacrifice to matter. In fact, Eskel, I can’t explain it, but there is something inside of me that tells me that our lives have to matter – that this life isn’t all there is. That we are part of something…eternal. Like I said earlier, I used to believe that destiny had called me to be a witcher. But, now, there’s something else - something more than destiny calling me to…something. I just don’t know what it is.” 

“Well, if you figure it out, I’d love to hear about it.”  
  
Geralt nodded as he looked out over the lake below. “Yeah,” he said with a sigh. 

He then turned and looked over at his friend. “Thanks, Eskel…for listening.”

“Anytime, Wolf. Anytime.”

After that, the two witchers sat for a while in comfortable silence, drawing on their pipes and staring up at the thousands of stars above them. As the minutes passed and the night air got colder, the wood in the chimenea occasionally crackled and popped next to them, sending fiery embers floating upward, mingling with the thousand-year old starlight.

oOo

Author’s Note:  
If you have suicidal thoughts due to either depression or severe grief, please know that there is help available. You can have hope for a better future.   
The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255.


	3. Chapter 3

Book 1: The Wolf Awakens  
Chapter 3

_Eastern Lyria; June 1273_

Geralt paused momentarily at the closed, front door of ‘The Mariposa’ and performed an auditory reconnaissance of the tavern’s interior. Given the backwoods town he was in, there was no telling the clientele’s level of sophistication. As far as he could discern, the customers sounded subdued. He could only hear some soft music playing. There were no sounds of drunken revelry. Of course, that didn’t really mean anything. The witcher knew that many people turned dumb, mean, and quiet when drunk, as opposed to dumb, mean, and loud. But regardless of the type, drunks, in his experience, almost always meant trouble - trouble for him and, then, typically, a quick but painful death for them. Not that the witcher was fearful of trouble. He could honestly say that he feared no man. But he was also at a point in his life where he simply wanted to avoid unnecessary drama if he could. He just didn’t have the patience for it anymore – if he ever did. Therefore, he was relieved that the tavern sounded calm. Calm was good.

As the witcher entered the tavern, the heads of the few patrons sitting near the front door turned his way, but upon seeing the twin blades on his back, they quickly averted their eyes, unease clearly on their faces. That was fine with the monster-slayer. He didn’t want any company. He had just spent the last hour cleaning wyvern blood from both his armor and silver sword, and now, after the successful completion of his latest contract, he simply desired a couple of rounds of vodka to help take the edge off. Hopefully, vodka consumed in peace. He surveyed the interior of the tavern. There was a long bar to his left, a large central room housing a stage for a few musicians and where most of the customers were sitting, and then, to the far right, a back room that was almost completely empty. Without any small talk, Geralt bought a bottle from the barkeep, headed to a small table in a dimly lit corner, and sat down with his back to the wall, facing the front door and the rest of the inn. 

Geralt poured himself a drink and savored the burn as it went down. He scanned the customers in the bar and quickly poured himself another shot. He then mentally corrected his previous thoughts at the door regarding the inverse correlation of sophistication to trouble. For he knew that bigotry, hatred, and violence were not limited to the backwoods, to the uneducated, or to the poor. Some of the vilest individuals he’d ever come across were the most “sophisticated.” How much murder, rape, incest, and deceit had he encountered in royal courts? Hell, most of the time, the poor were too busy working, simply trying to put food on the table, to concern themselves with other matters. It was typically only the rich and privileged – those who could “afford” idle time – who even had the energy to scheme and stir up trouble. The common man – and the witcher considered himself to be in this category - was simply trying to get through the grind of “today.”

Geralt pulled out his pipe and a pouch of tobacco from an inner pocket and began the methodical preparation. There was something relaxing in the process, similar to when he sharpened his swords or brewed decoctions. Perhaps, as creatures of habits, humans simply liked routines. Geralt pondered why that was. Did rituals make people feel safe and in control, or did they simply allow them to turn their minds off for a few minutes and forget about the constant stresses of life? He mentally shrugged his shoulders as he finished preparing his pipe and then, with a small snap of his fingers, used the Igni Sign to light the tobacco. Before he could even inhale his second draw, the witcher was interrupted from his introspection.

“Tayron. Please, don’t. He’ll kill you.” 

The words were said in a hushed tone, but Geralt had no trouble hearing them clearly. About fifteen feet away, he saw a woman with straight, brown hair – the color of dark chocolate - pulled loosely back into a ponytail. She was attempting – and failing - to stop a determined man from approaching the witcher’s table. The man had a flushed face, bleary eyes, and an axe in his hand. 

The White Wolf felt an immediate urge to kill the armed man. Anyone stupid enough to approach a witcher with a drawn weapon deserved to die.

“It’s all your fault, you bastard,” hissed the man with the axe.

He now stood defiantly on the other side of Geralt’s table. The witcher noticed his cheeks were streaked with tearstains, and he could hear the man’s heart pounding loudly. 

“Of course, it is. It’s always my fault.” Geralt’s monotone admission seemed to slightly confuse his adversary. “What exactly did I do this time?” 

“Clara’s dead because of you.” 

“Well, the only thing I’ve killed recently is a wyvern. So, unless you named it Clara, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” 

“You couldn’t have just accepted the contract for 200 coin, could you? You forced us to scrounge up another fifty, and in the two days it took us to do so, the wyvern killed her. Clara lost her life for fifty coin, you greedy bastard.” 

“Witcher’s work is dangerous. I risk my life, and I don’t do it for cheap.” The temptation to draw his blade and strike the man down grew stronger in the White Wolf. “Besides, I see you’re armed. You should’ve killed the beast yourself. Maybe, then…this Clara would still be alive.”

The man looked, briefly, as if he had been physically slapped, but then he glared at the witcher. 

“Well, I was afraid then. Afraid of dying. We all were. But I’m not afraid now,” the man stated with steel in his voice.  
  
“Good, because I’m not afraid of killing you,” the witcher replied coldly. “Before we begin, one question. Who was Clara?”

The demeanor of the man suddenly changed. He lowered his chin to his chest. “She…she was my daughter,” the man sobbed. 

For five long seconds, Geralt looked intently at the broken man. Then, his right hand - that had been poised to reach up for his sword - made a quick movement in the air and then rested back down on the tabletop. 

The townsfolk in the rest of the bar were watching the scene play out in deathly silence. Even the musicians had stopped playing their tune. Nobody could hear what was being said in the far corner, but they knew that their neighbor would soon be joining his dead daughter. Then, to their utter shock, they watched as Tayron placed his axe on the table, sat down across from the witcher, downed the shot glass that was placed in front of him, and began calmly speaking with the Butcher of Blaviken. After ten minutes, the witcher stood up, placed the bottle in front of the man, gave him a quick nod, and then exited toward the front door. 

As he crossed the threshold and stepped out into the night air, Geralt heard a soft voice coming from behind him.

“Master Witcher. Wait. Please.” 

He turned to see the woman with the ponytail approaching. She stepped close, and after checking to see that her hands were empty, he focused on her face. The first thing that struck Geralt was her height. She was just a handful of inches shorter than him. A few, loose strands of hair had escaped her ponytail and were framing her face. After watching her reach up and tuck the loose hair behind her ear, he peered into her eyes. He noticed that they matched the color of her hair. In the moonlight, they looked almost black. Seeing the small, crow’s feet wrinkles near her eyes, Geralt guessed the woman to be somewhere in her thirties. She had a small, faint scar on her chin, which immediately made the witcher think of Ciri. He could detect the lightest scent of vanilla on the woman, and he could tell she was nervous by both her rapid heart rate and by the fact that she was slightly biting her bottom lip. He glanced down and saw that she was wearing an apron. He hadn’t noticed her when he had walked in, but he assumed she was a waitress in the tavern. 

“I, uh…thank you,” she said hesitantly.

The witcher stared at the woman for a moment. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time that he’d heard anyone say those words to him. In the past six months he’d completed many contracts, but at the end of each, there was rarely, if ever, any gratitude. And, frankly, Geralt was fine with that. He didn’t do what he did out of kindness. He was a professional witcher. He didn’t need gratitude or adulation – just coin. He nodded his head slightly at the waitress. 

The barmaid continued. “Tayron hasn’t been himself these last few days. His daughter was killed by that monster.”

He nodded his head again. “I know,” he stated simply, wondering exactly what this woman wanted from him. He added nothing else. He just stared at the waitress some more. Uncomfortable silences never bothered the witcher. In fact, he knew they could, at times, serve as a strategic weapon – a useful to tool to get people to say more than they intended, simply to fill the silence.

“I…I saw you calm him down, with a Sign. Axii, right?”

The witcher furrowed his brows and peered even closer at the woman. How in the hell would a barmaid in a remote area like this know about specific witcher Signs? 

“Who are you?” he asked, his suspicion now growing. 

“My name is Evie.”

The witcher shook his head slightly. “I don’t mean your name. Who _are_ you? You’re obviously no simple barmaid.” 

Evie’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second. “I’m sorry. I…I shouldn’t have bothered you,” she stammered. “But…again, thank you.” And with that, she quickly headed back into the tavern.

Geralt instantly found himself with conflicted feelings. Part of him simply wanted to hop onto Roach, hit the Path, and find the next contract. However, there was another part that was intrigued by the woman. Something about her didn’t add up, and if there was one thing the witcher liked, it was solving mysteries. But, more than the mystery, he also realized that he was attracted to the barmaid, which was an unsettling feeling. He hadn’t been with a woman in well over a year, since prior to Ciri’s death. 

And, then, for some reason, he suddenly recalled Vesemir and one of his favorite lines, “Geralt, don’t get involved.” The memory of his mentor brought the faintest of wistful smiles to his face. 

“But that’s what I do, Boss,” he said to himself as he turned and disappeared into the darkness. 

oOo

‘The Mariposa’ pulsated with energy. Laughter and dancing filled the bar as the musicians enthusiastically plied their trade – a frenetic blend of drums and lutes, fiddles and flutes. The song was obviously popular and well-known by the patrons for multiple times throughout the tune – as if rehearsed – they would all punctuate the smoky air with joyful yells of “Hey” and raised fists, before quickly returning to their drinks, jigs, bawdy tales, and well-worn lies. As the liquor flowed, each patron, consciously or not, settled on different outlets by which to release their pent-up energy. There were those who pursued the opposite sex and all that entailed – the purchase of sweet berry-wine, indiscreet glances at plunging necklines revealing copious amounts of cleavage, a subtle resting of the hand on a forearm, and a flirtatious wink of the eye. Others – mostly women - chose to work up a slow sweat on the dance floor while at several tables, men of various ages engaged in arm-wrestling, accompanied by both shouts of encouragement and groans of disappointment as one prevailed over the other. There were games of dice, cards, and darts, and outside of the tavern, bets were placed as combatants beat each other bloody in battles of pugilistic skills. Every contest, regardless of the type, was followed immediately by money exchanging hands of both the participants and spectators alike. In contrast, the white haired witcher sat alone, carefully watching all of the festivities but participating in none. He was back in the tavern for another purpose. 

As the evening wore on, more and more customers entered the inn. There was easily four times the number of patrons as the previous night. Yet, they all gave Geralt – sitting at the same table in the same back corner as the night before - a wide berth. No one sat within ten feet of him. He wondered at the obvious increase of customers that evening. It wasn’t due to the band since it was the same musicians as the night before. He figured it was simply because he had killed the wyvern that had previously been terrorizing the area. He’d seen it countless times before. After he completed a contract, after the danger had passed, the collective tension and fear that had been gripping the town would evaporate, to be replaced with a combination of relief and revelry. However, after he eavesdropped on some conversations, the witcher discovered a second and, perhaps, more relevant reason behind the night’s increased turnout of customers - today was payday. 

Once a month, the small town was flooded with all of the miners from the local mining camps. This was because, on the fifteenth of each month, a merchant dealing in metals and minerals from the capital city would arrive in the town with an empty wagon, a chest full of coin, and a heavily armed escort. He’d leave with an empty chest and a wagon full of valuable ore. Geralt immediately knew he’d need to be extra wary, for wherever there was an influx of money, there would inevitably be an influx of disreputable folk – muggers, pickpockets, con artists, cardsharps, and worse. 

Geralt had been hoping all evening for the opportunity to engage Evie in conversation. And while she would come by his table from time to time to “wait” on him, she kept the conversation short, courteous, and professional. “I’m sorry, but I can’t really talk. I have other customers to serve,” is the line she repeated when he tried to draw her out. He noticed that on a few words, an accent would creep through, but it was so faint that he couldn’t quite place it. Perhaps, if he could ever get her into more than a five second conversation, then he’d be able to identify it. 

Midway through the evening, a conversation found the witcher. An older gentleman, covered in dirt and grime, entered the tavern, ordered a drink, and then approached the witcher’s table. 

“Thank you for killing the beast, Witcher.” 

That was now two nights in a row that he’d heard those words of gratitude. That was a record. Geralt gave a nod of recognition toward the man.

“Care for a game of Gwent?”

“Always,” answered the monster slayer.

The man sat down, and, as they laid out their cards, the conversation continued. “You completed the contract yesterday. I’m surprised you’re still in town.” 

The town was named Tarsus and was nestled at the base of the Blue Mountains, which formed the eastern boundary of the region of Lyria. Two decades past, prospectors had discovered various ore deposits in the mountains. As news of the valuable discovery spread, mining camps popped up quickly in the area, and the town of Tarsus soon followed in order to supply both goods and diversions to the miners. The town only existed because the ore existed, and the day that the ore ceased to exist, the town’s demise would quickly follow. Every citizen and every miner knew it, and that knowledge infused a current of foreboding through the heartbeat of the town. Every person woke each morning wondering if today would be the day that the ore finally ran out. Because, it was inevitable. The ore wouldn’t last forever. And once it ran out, then what would they do? How would they survive? These unspoken questions caused a persistent level of tension in the region’s populace, and most of them simply didn’t know how to cope with the stresses of life in a healthy way. Most turned to an excessive amount of booze to find relief, and that was one reason why the tavern that Geralt was currently sitting in was one of two entertainment establishments in the small outpost. 

“That makes two of us,” Geralt responded. 

If not for his interest in the mysterious Evie, he would have left town the previous evening. Most humans scarcely tolerated witchers and simply viewed them as a necessary evil. Since witchers were typically deemed as freaks of nature and barely one rung above the beasts they were hired to kill, once the contract was finished, most folk wanted the monster-slayers out of their sight. Geralt usually obliged them. 

“I’m surprised you’d want to talk with me,” the witcher continued. “Most view my presence like a turd in a punch bowl – not real welcome.”

The miner laughed. “Yeah, well, call me curious. I’ve lived more than sixty summers, and I’ve never spoken with a witcher. Heard a lot about them, but never actually talked to one. Figured this might be my only chance.”

“And you’re not afraid that I’m a mindless monster that’ll strike you down in cold blood?”

The man reached up and scratched his chin. “Nah. I was in here last night. Saw you with Tayron. I don’t know what was said between the two of you, but I figure a cold-blooded monster wouldn’t have even bothered with a conversation.”

Geralt nodded his head slightly at the man’s logic. He then looked down at the table to see the Scorch card that the man had just played. 

“Well, you’ll see cold-blooded if you keep playing those Scorch cards,” the witcher said in jest. “Name’s Geralt. Yours?” 

“Ananias.”

“A word of advice, Ananias. If you ever meet another witcher and he’s not wearing one of these,” - Geralt pointed to his wolf-head medallion - “then don’t approach him. There’s a good reason why witchers are seen as heartless killers. As a whole, we’ve earned that reputation.” 

The miner nodded. “Thanks. I’ll heed the warning. So, what makes you different?”

Geralt paused for a moment. “Not real sure,” he replied, shaking his head. “In truth, maybe I’m not,” he thought to himself. 

As the game continued, the man noticed Geralt’s eyes tracking Evie from across the bar, and a knowing smile crept across his face. 

“Pretty, ain’t she? If I had just half the coin that was spent in this place by men trying to get her attention…of course, when they discover they ain’t gonna get a peek at her delicates, they go elsewhere. They end up at Rosie’s, where the barmaids sell more than just booze and food, if you know what I mean.” 

“Yeah…I know what you mean,” said Geralt, whose eyes had moved quickly to the miner on his mention of Evie. “What do you know about her?” he then asked, nodding his head in Evie’s general direction.

“Not much. She showed up in town…maybe two years ago. She’s real polite and respectful, but she doesn’t let anyone get too close. And I’ve never heard her talk about her past. But that’s normal here. Most folk in Tarsus are trying to escape something from their pasts so…” With that, the man shrugged his shoulders and threw another Scorch card on the table, which sealed Geralt’s defeat.

The witcher looked down at the card. 

“Looks like I’m out of luck then…in more ways than one. Best be on my way.” 

While Geralt was curious about the woman, he wanted to respect her privacy. He certainly didn’t want to be seen as a nuisance or, even worse, as a stalker. 

oOo

Evie had been full of conflicting emotions all night – ever since she first noticed the witcher walk into the tavern. The overriding emotion was fear. Fear that, after two years, her identity would be discovered. Fear that her location would be reported. Fear that her secret would be revealed. Part of her regretted that she’d ever approached him last night. But she had just been so curious about him. And, to her surprise, she also felt a longing for the witcher. She couldn’t deny that, while the witcher was a scarred and intimidating figure, he was also quite striking. But more than having a physical attraction to the witcher, she simply wanted to feel safe. She didn’t want to feel afraid anymore, and she believed that if anyone could protect her, it would be this monster-slayer. She had no doubt that there was nothing in this world that he feared. Of course, her next thought was one of chastisement. 

“Stop acting like a silly school-girl, Evangeline. He’s a witcher. Not a knight looking for some damsel to save. And you don’t need saving anyway. Well, unless you’re talking about being saved from your loneliness.”   
  
This internal debate continued for much of the night. In the end, her fear – she would have said ‘good sense’ - won out, and she rebuffed all of his attempts for conversation. However, thoughts of the witcher ran through her mind for the rest of the evening, even after he had left the inn without a glance in her direction. 

oOo

Geralt was in the saddle, his mare moving at a slow walk. They’d been heading west for the last three hours. He reached into his front pocket for his pipe, but his hand came out empty. 

“Damn it, Roach. I must have left it in the tavern.” 

Life consists of a million choices. In truth, almost all of them are inconsequential. And even the ones that turn out to be monumental can seem completely unimportant in the moment. It’s not until one views the decision in hindsight – and sees that it’s one link in a long chain of cause-and-effect choices - that its impact can be fully appreciated. Geralt was about to have one of those moments. He didn’t know why, but he felt himself being drawn back to the tavern. 

“This makes no sense,” he thought to himself, as he turned Roach around. “It’s just a cheap pipe, bought for a few orens. And it has no sentimental value.” 

So, then why did he feel the need to head back? Why didn’t he just keep moving west to the city of Lyria and buy a new pipe there? He was making a decision based upon some “pull” he felt inside and not upon logic. And that went against everything Geralt believed in. He considered himself to be a man of wisdom and maturity – especially considering he was almost a century old, and he believed the wise and mature always based their decisions on rational, logical thought and not on whatever emotion they were feeling at the time. 

As Roach headed back east, Geralt kept up with the introspection. This decision to retrieve the pipe certainly wasn’t rational, but was it truly based on some emotion or desire, or was it something else? He asked himself if he was really returning for the pipe or to see Evie. While he could admit that he found her attractive, he honestly didn’t think he was returning out of a desire to see her. So, it had to be for some other reason, right? Of course, Geralt had lived long enough and knew himself well enough to admit that, at times, he had blind spots when it came to his decision-making skills in certain areas of his life – especially when it came to women. How else could he explain Yennefer? 

“Well, Roach, I guess we won’t know what this is about until we get there.” 

And he urged his mount into a canter.

oOo

Of all the thoughts and emotions running through Evie’s mind, the overriding one was self-recrimination. “How could I have been so stupid?” she asked herself as four sets of eyes leered at her. If nothing else, in the last two years of her life, she’d always made sure that she was aware of her surroundings and that she always had an escape plan. What had distracted her tonight? 

“We’ll take whatever coin you have on you. And then you’ll tell us where the owner keeps his stash,” said the leader of the four, a tall, rail-thin man with a hook nose and long, greasy hair touching his shoulders. 

His name was Saul, and he had been a soldier for Rivia and Lyria in the second war against Nilfgaard. The truth was, though, that he was a killer long before he put on the uniform. He committed his first murder, at the age of thirteen, the same night that he had lost his virginity, which was also the same night that he’d raped the neighbor’s fifteen-year-old daughter. He was no longer a soldier because he had learned that killing for himself was much more enjoyable than doing so for his country. More enjoyable and much more profitable. He’d cased the town, and he knew that today was payday. Therefore, he also knew that the till would be much fuller tonight than any other during the month.

“I’ll give you what I have on me, but Stellan always carries the nightly take home with him.” A quick inspection of the four men revealed that they were all armed in some fashion. “And he and his brothers are supposed to be right back to help me lock up,” Evie hastily added. “You should leave before they return.”

“Oh, oh, oh, missy.” Saul had a cruel laugh. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear you lie. It means you got fire in you. I always like ‘em better when they fight back.” He smiled at Evie and displayed a set of blackened, rotten teeth. “Stellan’s outside, gutted. And he only had a couple of coin on him, which means the money’s still here. See, I’m not just a pretty face,” he said as he tapped his temple with his index finger. Then, quickly, the smile disappeared. “And there ain’t no brothers.”

He backhanded Evie so suddenly and violently that she flew backwards into the bar and then crumpled to the floor. 

“Search everywhere,” he commanded his men, and then he lifted Evie up by the hair. “Now, let’s have some fun.” He punched her again, and she thought she could feel a couple of teeth loosen, as the metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. A blow to the side cracked two ribs, and she cried out and fell again to the floor. A kick to the abdomen and two more blows to the face, and the blackness started to creep in on her vision. 

“You’re not as pretty now, but that’s all right. I’ll just bend you over so I don’t have to look at you. My pappy taught me that you’re not supposed to look at the mantel when you’re poking the fire, anyway.” 

Saul laughed at his joke and then grabbed her by the hair again. 

Evie felt herself being lifted off the floor. Then, she was slammed face first onto the closest table, and she heard the sound of ripping fabric as her skirt was torn from her body. As she felt the vile man’s hands on her, she prayed, “Please, help.” At the very least, she hoped that she’d pass out from the pain so that she wouldn’t have to be awake to endure the shame of this man inside of her. Somehow in the chaos, she heard the front door creak open, and suddenly the man’s groping hands left her body.

“Anybody find a pipe?” 

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought that she’d heard that voice before. 

Evie’s left eye was already completely swollen shut, but with her right eye she could see a man silhouetted in the front door of the tavern. Three seconds - that felt like three minutes - passed. Everyone remained motionless and quiet as the witcher entered the room. 

“No? I’ll look myself then.”

The four bandits glanced at one another in confusion. What the hell was going on? Who would walk in on a murder, robbery, assault, and rape and simply ask about a pipe? Saul did have the presence of mind to pull Evie upright, almost as a shield in front of him. He then pulled out a knife and placed it to her throat.

With her one good eye, Evie watched the witcher walk toward the far corner of the back room. The lanterns had been extinguished earlier so it was now in complete darkness.

“Well, Roach, now we know why,” she could have sworn she heard the witcher say, though the words didn’t seem to make any sense to her. Who was he talking to? 

The four men were simply staring into the darkness, still unsure of what was about to happen. 

Evie could hear some rustling coming from the witcher, and then a few moments later, the darkness was broken by a small flame coming from the witcher’s fingertips. She caught a quick glimpse of his face as he lit his pipe, and then it was swallowed by the darkness again as he exhaled. Swirls of white-gray smoke drifted out of the backroom, outward and upward. 

The silence was finally broken. 

“Do you know how long a witcher spends each day caring for his swords?” his question carried out of the darkness. 

One of the four automatically shook his head in response while the other three tried to peer into the darkness. Everyone seemed to be mesmerized.

“No? Two hours. We sharpen them every day, whether they need it or not. They’re so sharp I could shave the spikes off of an alghoul. We keep the blades free from blood, grime, acids – anything that could cause corrosion. We cover them in protective oils. Because they’re more than just the tools of our trade. We’re taught from the earliest age to treat our swords as if our lives depended upon them. Because they do.” 

At that point, the witcher stepped out of the darkness and approached Evie and Saul. The other three instinctively formed a circle around him. Evie noticed the witcher’s hand make a subtle motion at his side, and then she suddenly felt a warm, cozy blanket of peace envelope her. She was still aware of her surroundings, but she was no longer bothered by them. And she noticed that the knife was no longer at her throat. 

The witcher took a long draw from his pipe, removed it from his mouth with his right hand, and then exhaled slowly. 

“So…I’m not about to sully my blades on four shit-stains like you.” 

He immediately swiveled to his left and drove his pipe into the man’s eye-socket, penetrating his brain and killing him instantly. Before the bandit at his six o’clock had even moved, Geralt was on him, snapping his neck in a seamless move. As the dead body was falling to the floor, the witcher grabbed its clothes and heaved the corpse toward shit-stain number three. Both bodies fell to the floor in a heap. Geralt stepped towards the corpse with the “pipe monocle”, bent down, and picked up the dead man’s hatchet. He wiggled his wrist a bit, calculating the balance of the small weapon. He brought his eyes up to see the third man just untangling himself from his dead partner’s body. With a quick step, the witcher hurled the hatchet. There was a sound like a melon bursting as it buried into the man’s chest, and the outlaw fell backward onto the floor. The White Wolf walked slowly towards the injured man and stood over him. With a coldness in his eyes, he stared down at the bandit, lifted his leg, and then stomped down hard on the hatchet, driving it through the man’s breastbone and into his thorax. 

The entire sequence had taken less than ten seconds. It was only then that he bothered to look at Evie and her captor. Since they’d been standing so close together, he’d been forced to hit them both with the same Axii Sign stunner. Geralt gently laid Evie on a nearby bench, quickly assessed her breathing and her body for any major bleeding, and then picked up her torn skirt to cover her nakedness.

The Butcher of Blaviken stood, carefully surveyed the tavern, and then spotted what he wanted. He turned his back on Saul and walked slowly to the bar. He picked up a half-empty bottle of whiskey. There was just enough light in the tavern that he could see his reflection – distorted - in the colored glass. He paused as he noticed his eyes peering back at him. He returned to Saul and turned the bottle upside down over his head, soaking his filthy hair and clothes. This caused the murderer and rapist to awaken from his slumber so the witcher “hit” him again with another Axii. 

“Get on your knees and crawl outside,” he commanded.

Once the man was away from the tavern, the monster-slayer told him to stand up. He grabbed some wire from one of Roach’s saddlebags, tied the man’s ankles and wrists, and then “woke” him from his stunned state.

“I left you for last,” the witcher began. “I could’ve killed you while you were still stunned, and you would have felt very little. I could even kill you real quick right now. Remove your head and you’d be dead before your body hit the ground.” 

The White Wolf suddenly smelled urine and saw that the now terrified man was pissing himself. 

“But there’s no justice in that. Justice is that you feel the same pain and torment and…fear that you’ve caused in Evie and that, I have no doubt, you’ve instilled in countless others over the course of your miserable life.” The witcher paused and glared into the man’s eyes. “So, reap it… and burn, you piece of filth.” 

The killer of monsters cast an Igni Sign at the bound man. As his clothes and skin lit up like a pyre, his screams of agony echoed throughout the mountains. 


	4. Chapter 4

Book 1: The Wolf Awakens  
Chapter 4

Evie drifted in and out of consciousness. When she did wake for brief moments, she felt tremendous pain in her face, ribs, and abdomen. She also noticed that every time she opened her eyes, a white-haired man was on his knees by her side, looking down at her. Then, she would fade back to black. She thought that she remembered the man making her drink something a few times, but she honestly couldn’t differentiate dream from reality at that point. 

oOo

Evie’s vision came into focus, and she noticed a rock ceiling above her. She looked to her left to see, once again, the white-haired man by her side.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Thirsty,” she rasped. Her mouth and throat felt like it was coated with cotton. 

“Here, drink up.” 

Evie slowly sipped the warm liquid before making a face. 

“Ugh. What is this? It’s not the best.”

“A special decoction. Ribleaf, celandine, wintergreen oil, and white willow bark mixed in boiled nekker urine.” 

She peered up at the witcher, who was looking down at her without even a hint of a smile.

“You know what? I hurt too much to care if you’re being serious or not.” 

At that point, the smallest of grins came upon the witcher. 

“Well, not about the urine part. But the brew does help with both the pain and swelling. I was worried for a bit. Afraid that he’d busted your insides up too much. If this decoction didn’t work, my next step was to give you some highly diluted witcher potions.” 

“And if that didn’t work?”

“I would’ve dug your grave.”

Evie nodded her head. “Thank you, Witcher.”

He nodded his head back at her. “Call me Geralt.” 

oOo

Later, Evie was sitting up, her back against a rock wall. There was a chill in the air so she had a blanket, from the pallet that Geralt had previously prepared, wrapped around her. She surveyed her surroundings. It appeared that they were in a cave, but the entrance looked manmade – a square ten-foot by ten-foot opening. She noticed that the witcher had made a small fire near the entrance and that rain was falling outside.

“Where are we?” she asked the witcher, who was sitting nearby.

“In one of the abandoned mines in the mountains. I stayed here a couple of nights this week.” 

“How long was I out?”

“Three days. You were more than just battered and bruised. You had some kind of fever, too.” 

“Doesn’t surprise me. Just breathing the same air as those four vermin probably gave me something. But why bring me here? Why not stay in town?”

“Five humans were dead, including the bartender, and you were unconscious and beaten to a pulp. I wasn’t going to stick around.”

“But…you saved me,” she replied. “You could’ve told everyone what happened.”

Geralt simply shook his head. 

“I’ve learned humans rarely listen to my explanations. It’s easier for them to go with their pre-conceived notion of what I am.” 

“What do you mean ‘easier’?”

Geralt stared into her eyes and paused to collect his thoughts. 

“Prejudice. We don’t come out of the womb with it. We’re taught it. We’re taught that witchers are baby-stealing monsters, that elves are deceitful thieves, that dwarves are greedy drunks, and so forth. It becomes part of our worldview. And, then, we live out our lives based on that worldview, and we’ll even use isolated incidents to re-enforce those beliefs. If we see a dwarf drinking at a bar, suddenly, it’s, ‘See, Marva, I told you that all dwarves are drunken no-goods.’”  
“You keep saying ‘we.’ Are you prejudiced, too?”

The witcher nodded. “Yeah, I’m no better than anyone else. At times, it’s difficult for me to overcome my belief that all Nilfgaardians are elitist, war mongering pricks.”

Evie smiled. “Okay, but you still haven’t explained how it’s easier to be prejudiced.” 

“If someone or something comes along in life that challenges and contradicts our worldview, we only have two choices. One option is that we actually have to change our way of thinking to be more in line with truth. But that can cause serious discomfort…because doing so could force us to look at our past actions with regret. It could force us to go against how all those around us – family, friends, neighbors - view the world. It makes us feel uneasy because when we start to question our beliefs, suddenly our lives aren’t so stable. We begin to ask ourselves if everything we believe in is wrong. The biggest factor, though, is that a change in our worldview could force us to drastically change our behavior. And that’s simply not something many of us are willing to do.”

“You said there were two options. What’s the second?”

“We just flat-out reject whatever it is that is challenging our beliefs. Dismiss it as a lie. Refuse to even consider it. The second option is easier. It’s why I’m seen as the Butcher of Blaviken. And it’s why I wasn’t going to stick around.”

She looked closely at Geralt. “Well, Butcher, you are like no witcher I’ve ever heard or read about,” she said with a smile.

Suddenly, Geralt saw his opening. 

“Speaking of ‘hearing or reading about witchers,’ how is it you knew I cast the Axii Sign on Tayron? That level of detail about witchers isn’t common knowledge - especially for barmaids in remote mining towns.” 

Evie sighed and then peered deeply into the witcher’s eyes. After a moment, she nodded.

“Okay. You saved my life so…I guess the least I owe you is an explanation. I haven’t always worked in a tavern. I hold advanced degrees in both history and linguistics from the University of Nilfgaard and Oxenfurt Academy. Just prior to my current profession as a barmaid, I served as a part-time consultant for the Nilfgaardian royal court.”

“Hmm. You took a step up then, if you ask me.”

Evie smiled. “Not a fan of politics, in general, or, specifically, the Emperor?”

“Both.”

“Well, I won’t disagree with you, on either count. And by the way, just so you know - I’m not Nilfgaardian. I was born in Vicovaro.”

A gleam came to the witcher’s eyes. “Really? You know, I once knew a maid from Vicovaro…”

“Ugh! Stop, please! I promise you I’ve heard them all.” 

Geralt’s smirk grew a little wider. “Alright…I’ll spare you. Well, at least it’s good to know you’re not an elitist, war-mongering prick. So, you were telling me how you knew about Axii.”

“Right. Well, given my profession, I try to read everything that I can on the history of the Continent. And you witchers have played a significant role in that history. But there’s very little written about you. Well, there are a few stories and songs, but all of those come off as fables, fairy-tales. And, yes, I am referring to the bard Dandelion’s tales of your exploits.”

Upon hearing that, Geralt rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“But there is no research that is written in a scientific, objective manner,” Evie continued. “The book, Monstrum, is the only thing that even comes remotely close. It obviously has some details about witchers – like the Signs that you use – that are accurate. But it’s also easy to tell that the author inserted a tremendous amount of his negatively biased opinion. Because, so far, you are nothing like how he describes witchers to be.”

“You sound open-minded.”

“And you sound skeptical of that.”

“That’s because open-minded people are as rare as the silver-winged basilisk. They both should be on the endangered-species list.”

“I won’t argue with that at all, but, Geralt, you should know that, as a historian, I am, ultimately, only interested in actual facts – not in subjective biases, opinions, or myths. Though, in truth, most of the time I do have to sift through all of those just to find actual kernels of fact. Therefore, please know that I will view you on you - based on what you’ve shown me of you and not on anything that I’ve heard or read about witchers prior to this. Okay?”

“Fair enough,” he said, nodding his head.

Evie continued. “Geralt, I won’t go so far as to say that I understand the level of prejudice you’ve experienced, but I think that, as a woman, I can sort of relate. Except for sorceresses, women are viewed as inferior to men in every way. It’s why I wasn’t and never would have been an officially recognized advisor of Emperor var Emreis’ staff. It’s why I’ll probably never be a department head at any university. So, I understand your skepticism, but I have hopes that one day this world will be open-minded enough for women – and witchers - to be seen as equal to men in terms of dignity, intelligence, and worth.”

A small sneer came to the witcher’s face, and he shook his head. 

“Don’t be naïve. This world will never give a _damn_ about things like dignity or worth or…fairness. In this world, ‘might makes right.’ ‘Power’ is the only currency that matters. It’s the only reason sorceresses have a seat at the table. And these” - Geralt pointed a thumb at the swords on his back – “are the only reason I’m seen as having any value. Why did those four shits come into your bar three nights ago? For power. They wanted money, because money equals power. And why did the leader try to rape you? It wasn’t out of a desire for intimacy or companionship. He wasn’t trying to connect with your _dignity_ and _worth_. It was about power. He wanted to dominate you, to own you, to destroy you. So, wake the hell up from your dream. This is the world we live in. And this is the way it will always be, Ciri. It is _not_ worth saving.” 

Evie was quiet for a moment. “Who is Ciri?” she asked softly.

The witcher looked at her with confusion on his face.

“You called me Ciri.” 

Geralt’s eyes fell from hers and towards the ground. With a slight shake of his head, he stood up and slowly walked out of the cave and into the rain. 

oOo

Morning broke the next day with clear skies. After eating a small breakfast together, Geralt inquired as to his patient’s wellbeing.

“I’m a bit stiff.”

“Well, want to go for a walk? Loosen up the muscles?” he asked. “It might help.”

Evie agreed, and they began to stroll through the tree-covered mountainside. They talked as they walked, with the witcher occasionally offering Evie a hand when they encountered particularly rough terrain. Evie soon discovered that while the witcher possessed a dry sense of humor, he was also quite cynical.

“Sometimes, life is so tragic that all you can do is laugh at the absurdity of it all. It’s either that or cry,” he said at one point. When she asked for an example, he told of her of his recent stay in Toussaint. 

“I was in the duchy for just a few weeks, but there were numerous examples of life’s irony – times when life turned out the exact opposite of the way people intended or wanted.” 

“Such as?” asked Evie.

“Well, there was a young knight, who claimed to be in love with this aloof and mysterious maiden. Because he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with her, he hired me to uncover the mystery, which he believed to be a curse. Turns out that he was correct. She was under a curse, which I was able to lift. But, after doing so, she wanted nothing to do with him. Sent him away.”

“What? You’d think she would’ve been grateful.”

“She was…to me. She considered him to be…a nuisance, I guess. The last time I saw him, he was face down in the street, drunk. That situation certainly didn’t turn out the way he had hoped – in spite of the fact that she was cured of her curse. You want another example?”

“I’m not sure. Is it as sad as that one?”

“Worse. Long story short, I came across a mage’s laboratory. The mage’s son, due to the Law of Surprise, had been turned over to witchers as a boy. The man loved his son and spent the rest of his life researching and conducting experiments, trying to come up with a way to reverse his son’s mutations so that he could be ‘human’ again. And some of his experiments were pretty ruthless, conducted upon unwilling participants, including his son. As you can probably guess, the experiments didn’t work as he had wanted, and the son died, cursing his father as a heartless monster with his dying breath. And as a side note, not only did the experiments not reverse the witcher’s mutations as he had hoped, they actually strengthened them. As I said – life is quite ironic.”

“Those are really sad stories, Geralt.”

“I know. That’s what I’ve been saying – life is tragic. I’ve got dozens of stories just like those.”

Evie was quiet for a while before asking, “Knowing what you know now, would you do anything different with the knight and maiden, if you could?”

Geralt thought for a moment. “No. I don’t regret my choices with them. I think I made the right decisions even though it didn’t end up ‘happily ever after’ for the knight.”

“Really? I find it interesting that you can separate the choice from the outcome. That you’d still do the same things knowing that the knight ended up as a drunk in the gutter.”

“Well, first of all, my actions didn’t cause him to become a drunk. That was 100% his choice. There are other ways to deal with grief…though turning to alcohol does seem to be the easiest. I should know. But, if I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that I can’t control what anyone else does or thinks. I can influence others, but I can’t control them. It’d be pure ego to believe that I’m some…all-powerful being whose choices can override another person’s free will.” 

As he said this, a vision of Ciri walking into the Undvik tower to face the White Frost flashed in his mind. 

“Also, while I do think the desired outcome is certainly a factor to consider when making a decision, I firmly believe that it shouldn’t be the most important factor.” 

“Really? Then what is?”

“Rightness. Is my decision the morally or ethically ‘right’ one? As I’m sure you know from your recent experience in the tavern, life is ugly and complicated. Our plans don’t work out like we want. What we think should happen, rarely does. And a big reason is that our choices are not made in isolation. Outside forces - other people and other factors - impact the outcomes along our life’s journey. So, in that moment, when I’m making a choice, I have to ask myself, ‘What is the right thing to do?’ Because, essentially, that’s the only thing I can control – that choice in that moment. I can’t control whatever happens after that. There are too many other factors in play.”

“Okay, but how does that tie in with the knight and the maiden?”

“The maiden wanted my help in lifting the curse. But she also asked that I keep her condition private, which I agreed to do. Later, the knight demanded to know details. In that moment, I had a choice to make – do I betray her trust or do I maintain confidentiality? It was an easy decision for me. I kept my word. I chose to treat her like I would like to be treated. I chose to respect her and to honor her desire to keep her private life private. The problem was that the knight refused to respect her privacy. He thought that he had the right to be in the middle of her business. In fact, he later snuck into her tent and eavesdropped on our conversation. When he was discovered, she threw him out and told him to never return.  
  
“Now, would things have turned out differently had I betrayed her trust and told the knight about the curse and the methods to break it? Maybe, because then perhaps he wouldn’t have chosen to sneak into her tent, which meant that she wouldn’t have thrown him out and so forth. But, even now, I don’t know for sure how it would have turned out. And even if I did know, does that justify me breaking my promise to the girl? I don’t think so. So, all I could do was make the right choice in that moment.” 

“Okay, it makes sense when you explain it like that,” she said, nodding her head. “Why do you think the knight acted the way that he did?”

“For the same reason that most of us make poor choices. We’re usually our own worst enemy. Either we pick the wrong things that we think will make us happy, or we pick the wrong way of going about trying to achieve those things. And, typically, it’s because we allow our emotions to control our behavior. How many times have you heard someone say, ‘Just follow your heart.’? I say, ‘Bullshit’ to that. I say, ‘Follow your head.’ Our emotions cloud our judgment. They hinder our ability to think logically. Simply put, our emotions are irrational. And irrational choices usually end poorly.”

“So, you think the knight was wrong for falling in love and wanting to be with the maiden? Wow, you really are jaded.”

Geralt nodded his head. “You don’t know the half of it. But, no, I don’t think it was wrong for him to be in love, but I do think he was wrong in how he chose to pursue her. I think that he wanted her so badly that he let his emotions get the best of him so that he stopped thinking logically. Think about it. He actually thought that he would achieve his end goal – winning the fair maiden’s heart - by sneaking into her tent and eavesdropping on her – by violating her privacy. And this was after she had already previously made it clear to him that she didn’t want him poking around. I’ll admit that I’m clueless when it comes to women, but even I know that most women don’t like it when you blatantly disrespect their wishes.”

“Okay. I agree with that. But what are you saying – that the world would be better if we were all more…witcher-like?” she asked with a grin.

“First, that’s a myth - that we don’t feel emotions,” he replied with his own grin. “But, yeah, I think so. More logic never hurt anyone.”   
  
Evie didn’t say anything for a bit. 

“I’ve heard you call life ‘ugly,’ ‘tragic,’ ‘absurd,’ and ‘complicated.’ And I certainly agree with you. My own life has shown me that. But don’t you think it can be beautiful, too?” 

He nodded his head. “At times. But those moments have always been very fleeting. They’ve never lasted. And I don’t trust they ever will.”

“Geralt – now that’s tragic.”

“As I said.”

oOo

Over the next few days, Evie began to recover quickly, but she still wasn’t quite well enough to return to town. During that time, she mostly rested and recuperated, but she also spent many hours with Geralt, talking around the campfire and taking short walks in the mountains. Geralt regaled her with a variety of stories of his over eight decades as a witcher, and she told him of her time in Nilfgaard and Oxenfurt and of the different historical sites she’d studied over the years. When he asked, she even admitted to having been previously married – a brief marriage in her twenties that had ended in divorce. He could see some pain in her eyes when she discussed it so he didn’t pry for details despite being curious. 

“So, how is it that you became a historian?” Geralt asked at one point, as they were sitting on a log in the woods, high up in the mountains.

“My father,” Evie answered. “He was a historian, too.”

“Was?” queried the witcher.

“Yeah. He died, about ten years ago.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that.”  
  
She shrugged. “It’s okay, now. It’s been a long time.”

“You must have really looked up to him, to follow in his footsteps.” 

“Yeah, he was really good at what he did. An expert in the field of elven lore – or, at least, as much of an expert as a non-elf can be. He even worked for var Emreis at one point, too. Huh, I guess that’s two things we had in common,” she said with a small smile.

“You two must have had a good relationship, then,” remarked Geralt.

“Well, not as much as you’d think.” 

After a long pause, Evie continued. “Look, I’m not going to act maudlin or melodramatic. It’s not as if I thought he was ever disappointed that I was a girl. I mean, he already had two sons. And I’m not going to claim that I never heard him say things like, ‘I love you’ or ‘I’m proud of you’ – because he did. But I learned at an early age that he seemed to care more about the dead than the living.”

“What do you mean?”   
  
“It’s easy to say things. It’s easy to say words like, ‘I love you.’ But it’s a whole lot harder to back them up – with your actions. He said that he loved me – and my mom and brothers – but he just didn’t spend much time with us. Hardly ever. I mean, aren’t you supposed to you want to spend time with the people you love?” she asked rhetorically.

“He was always at work – at the university, or a conference, or at some far-off locale. Heck, even when he was home, he spent almost every hour of his time in his study, pouring over ancient texts or writing some new thesis. I think that I initially got interested in history just so that he’d let me spend time in his study with him, asking him questions.”

“That’s…a little sad, Evie.”

“Yeah.” 

Evie stayed silent for several moments, watching a small bird hop excitedly about on a branch of nearby tree - adding a twig to a nest it was building, then soaring down to the ground to pick up another before immediately flying back up to add the new twig to its home. 

“Sometimes, I wonder if I was so driven to get my doctorates because I actually love the subjects or if I was simply trying to prove to him that I was worthy to talk to.”

They were quiet for a while after that, neither knowing what to say next. Finally, the witcher turned his head toward Evie and replied, “Well, I’m here now, and I’m talking to you.”

She looked up into his face, a wistful smile on her lips. “Thanks, Geralt.”

The witcher simply nodded his head several times before turning away from her sad eyes. Then, they both sat there in silence, watching the little, energetic bird continue to hop about and build its nest.

Evie and Geralt had many more conversations over the next few days, but during all of the them, the topic of Ciri was never brought up. And, as a reciprocal courtesy, he never asked about the events that had transpired for her to leave the life of a historian and become a barmaid in Tarsus.

Despite not being a topic of conversation though, Geralt was aware that Ciri was on his mind much more since spending time with Evie. Mistakenly calling Evie by Ciri’s name was just one – and the most obvious - example. The two didn’t particularly look similar, but there was something about Evie that was clearly causing memories of Ciri to come to the surface. Perhaps, it was simply that she was both young and female. Geralt realized that Evie was the first woman he’d spent any real time with since Ciri’s death. What was more confusing to the witcher, though, were the emotions that were still attached to the memories. He thought that, after his months at Kaer Morhen and after his conversation with Eskel, he had dealt with his grief. He thought that he had finally come to the point of accepting what had happened a year ago. He thought that, with acceptance, he should no longer feel either sadness or anger when he thought of Ciri’s death. But he couldn’t deny that the emotions were certainly present again - though, luckily, they were no longer overwhelming him as they had last summer. It perplexed him, but then again, he realized that he’d never experienced grief like he’d felt with the death of his daughter. He hoped that he’d never have to again.

oOo

After six days in the mountains, Evie was finally ready for the trek back to Tarsus. The bruising had turned to an ugly greenish color, but the swelling in her face and body had subsided and the pain had mostly dissipated. Her ribs were still a bit tender, but the potions Geralt was giving her were increasing the healing process very quickly. 

They were sitting side-by-side on a boulder near their temporary home, looking out over the valley as it was bathed in the light of the setting sun. Evie was acutely aware of the witcher’s thigh pressed up against her own. Being so close to him brought back memories of two nights previous. She had awoken with a start, her own cry of anguish stirring her from a nightmare – a nightmare in which her mind had been replaying all of the sights, sounds, and emotions from the attack in the tavern. She had immediately felt Geralt’s hand on her shoulder and heard his voice, saying, “It’s okay. I’m here. It was just a nightmare. I’m here.” She had instinctively clung to him. She remembered how safe she had felt when he wrapped his strong arms around her. She remembered his scent. She remembered that she didn’t want him to let go. And she remembered just how tender and attentive he had been all week as he nursed her back to health. She suddenly felt the desire to let him know just how much she appreciated him. 

“I must say, Butcher, if you ever decide to hang up your swords, you truly could become a healer of some sort. With your potions and the balms and bandages you put on my ribs, you really seem to know what you’re doing. I’m impressed…and very grateful.”  
  
Geralt nodded his head and continued gazing out over the valley. “Well, you really need to thank my friend, Regis. I learned it from him. For most of my life, I only knew how to heal myself, with witcher potions. Then, about a year ago, I tried to help a young woman who had been attacked by a griffin. I ended up giving her a diluted dose of Swallow, but it just made things worse. So, a few months ago, when I reconnected with Regis, I asked him to show me some medicinal recipes that would work on humans.” Geralt shook his head and continued. “You know, life is strange. Three months ago, I thought Regis was dead. Then, he comes back into my life and teaches me some potions that, a few weeks later, end up saving your life. It’s amazing how the events of life mysteriously intertwine just so. I’ll have to thank him the next time I see him.”

When she didn’t respond, Geralt turned his head to his look at his patient. She was staring at him intently with a warm smile on her face. 

“What is it?” he asked.

“You’re a kind man, Geralt of Rivia.” 

Looking at Evie, Geralt could easily pick up the cues - her dilated pupils, the increased heart rate, the slight licking of her lips. He could even sense that her body temperature had elevated. And, suddenly, he felt very uncomfortable. He quickly stood up and took a step away from her.

“Yeah, well…thanks, but…I think your fever’s returned…cause you’re obviously delirious if you think that,” he said. “Come on. Time to go.” 

oOo

When Geralt had fled Tarsus six nights previous, holding Evie in front of him, he’d had the presence of mind to grab a spare horse that had been left in front of the tavern. It was that horse that Evie was riding back to town. The sun was just disappearing below the horizon as they approached the outpost. With darkness closing in, the narrow, dirt streets were mostly abandoned. The citizens had gone indoors for the evening. 

As they rode down the middle of the main road, Evie, suddenly and unexpectedly, pulled up on her reins. 

The witcher quickly halted Roach and looked back at her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She was biting her lower lip and looking down at the ground but then brought her eyes up to meet his. 

“Geralt, I…I don’t want you to leave.” 

The witcher nodded. “Yeah…I’ve…kind of gotten used to you, too.”

“Then stay.”

“And do what, Evie? Be a bartender? Or, worse yet, go work in the mines? That’s not happenin’. And there’s no way you can come with me. The Path is no place for an academic. Look, I’m sorry, Evie…this is just the life I have. I’m sorry that you got involved with me.” 

“Well, I’m not,” she said quickly. She then sighed. “Will you… at least finish escorting me home?”

Geralt nodded. “Yeah. Do you want to walk? Make the time count?” 

After a nod from her, they both dismounted their horses and walked through the village side by side, holding their reins in their outer hands. The witcher internally jumped when he felt Evie’s hand slide into his. He turned his head and looked into Evie’s face and then down at their interlaced fingers. Geralt wondered at how something could feel so comforting and so terrifying at the exact same time. He knew that, despite the mythos of the witcher walking the Path forever alone, he had an innate desire for companionship. And his past showed that he fulfilled that desire as often as he could. He wasn’t quite as famous for his adventures with women as he was for his adventures with monsters, but it was close. 

But, now, there was another desire, as well. A desire to protect himself. It was a voice that said, _“It ain’t worth it, Wolf. In the end, she’ll leave you, one way or another. Just like Ciri did; just like Vesemir did; just like your mother, who abandoned you, did; and just like, despite your plea for a second chance, Triss did on the docks of Novigrad. Hell, even your decades-long fiasco of a relationship with Yennefer was nothing but a great cosmic lie sustained by magical ties.”_ Once the djinn’s magical bond had been broken, even that relationship had ended. Despite still caring deeply for Yennefer, any desire for anything permanent with the raven-haired sorceress had simply evaporated. Whoever had said, “It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all” was an absolute fool – a fool who had never lost or a masochist who had, the witcher thought to himself. 

Geralt was suddenly interrupted from his internal debate by the sound of voices. He squeezed Evie’s hand and whispered, “Stop.” He put his finger across his lips and shook his head before she could say anything. He leaned in close to her ear and said, “Nilfgaardian voices.” 

While it was true that the Empire controlled all the land south of the Pontar River, including the land of Rivia and Lyria, there was no good reason for Nilfgaardians to be in the remote village of Tarsus. They were still in the middle of a war against Redania, far to the west and north. 

Fear spread across her face. “I can’t hear them,” she whispered. “What are they saying?”

Geralt listened intently for about a minute. 

“They’re talking about you, looking for you. And discussing how long until more men from Vizima will arrive.”

“Shit…shit, shit.”

“Yeah…shit, indeed. Look, let’s stay calm. They don’t know we’re here. So, let’s just sneak out of town as easily as we snuck in. And, then, you can tell me why they’re looking for you.”

Evie shook her head. “I’ve got something in my cottage that I can’t leave.”

“What?”

He could see the uncertainty on her face. “It’s...a book,” she said after a moment.

Geralt looked at her with disbelief. “A book? Is it worth your life?”

She looked him in the eye. “Yes,” she stated with pure conviction.

The witcher stared back for a few seconds and then nodded. “Okay. Stay here. I’ll take care of them.”

As he was about to turn away from her, she grabbed his arm. “Wait. You can’t kill them,” she implored. “They could be just simple farmhands who were conscripted last week. I highly doubt they even know why I’m wanted. Can’t you, I don’t know, just use Axii on them?”

Geralt was losing patience. 

“Look, Professor, let me share some _facts_ with you. Witchers, typically, only have time in a fight to use Axii on one opponent. The rest taste my blade. And it sounds like there are three to four of them.” 

Evie, still gripping his arm, continued to look at him with pleading in her eyes. 

“Damn it. Fine,” he said with a sigh. “I won’t kill…without cause…but you and I are going to have a long talk after this.” She gave a small smile and nodded her head in understanding. “Now, I need you to head back to the mine. If you want me to do this without bloodshed, then I’m going to have to do some scouting. So, it’ll take a while. And it will help me focus if I know that you are somewhere safe.” 

Evie had as much pride as anyone and wanted to protest for being sent away, but she also had the sense to know her limitations, which included such skills as reconnaissance work and hand-to-hand combat. She also didn’t want to push her luck, having gotten the witcher to agree to her previous requests. After telling Geralt where to find the book in question, she mounted her horse and returned to the abandoned mine. 

The witcher thought quickly about what he would need in order to capture and subdue the soldiers. 

“Ridiculous,” he mused. “Witchers kill. We don’t capture. Of all the dumb decisions I’ve made in my life – and there have been a lot, it seems like most of them have involved women in some way or fashion. Well, women or Dandelion.” 

Geralt grabbed some wire and cloth from one of Roach’s saddlebags and then navigated his way quietly around the cottages of Evie’s closest neighbors. He crouched, mostly hidden, near the corner of the closest cabin and surveyed the scene. Evie’s small cottage was in the southernmost part of town, slightly isolated, and in the shadow of a very large oak tree. There appeared to be only three Nilfgaardian soldiers, and they were all standing clustered together near the front door. Even though the sun was already behind the Mahakam Mountains, Geralt waited another fifteen minutes for the darkness to settle in. The moon was just a sliver and the sky was spotted with clouds so illumination was almost nonexistent. Despite that, Geralt decided against using a shot of Cat potion to enhance his vision. He could still see pretty well at the moment. Plus, one of the soldiers had lit a torch and placed it in a sconce near the front door of the cabin. Using Cat that close to bright light would be quite painful.

Geralt knew that the three men wouldn’t stand there clustered together all evening. He had come across soldiers from dozens of different armies in his lifetime. One consistent characteristic of every army was that they would always have a one- to two-man patrol at night, for security purposes. And, sure enough, in a short time, two of the soldiers entered Evie’s cabin while the other began walking methodically around the perimeter of the property. Geralt knew that it wouldn’t take long for the guard to grow bored and, consequently, careless on his watch. When the guard was on the backside of the house, the Wolf quietly approached the property, hopped the short fence, and stepped behind the thick tree that was located to the right side of the yard. As the soldier began his second circuit around the house, the witcher simply stepped out from the behind the tree and cast an Axii at the man’s back. The guard suddenly stopped and just stood there, facing away. Geralt quickly approached the man, tore a strip of cloth and used it to gag the soldier, and then tied the man’s ankles and wrists using the wire. He used another strip of cloth to blindfold the man. The soldier was still under the effects of Axii, but Geralt also knew that every person had different, natural resistance levels to it. Some could fight off the effects quickly, and some could even lie when asked questions. Thus, he decided to encourage compliance with one of the oldest and most effective methods – instilling fear. He stood directly behind the man, pulled his knife, and placed it to the man’s throat. 

He then leaned in close, an inch from the Nilfgaardian’s ear, and whispered, “Nod gently if you feel my blade on your throat.” The soldier nodded. “Good. I have no qualms about killing you. Nod if you believe that.” The man’s head moved again. “Good, again. I am going to loosen the gag and ask you some questions. Behave and you’ll live. Don’t…and I’ll slaughter you and everyone inside. Nod if you believe me.” The guard nodded for the third time. 

Geralt loosened the gag. “How many are inside?”

“Two,” the soldier answered in a calm voice.

“Is one of them going to relieve you from your patrol or are you just going to head inside when you’re tired?”

“Norrie will relieve me.”

“When?”

“After an hour.”

Geralt put the gag back in place, lifted the man easily onto his shoulder, carried him behind the large oak, and set him on the ground.

“Move or make a noise and you’re dead. Got it?” Another nod in response. Geralt patted the man’s head. “Sit tight.”

About thirty minutes later, the front door of the cabin opened and Norrie walked out. He stood at the door for about two minutes, then in exasperation said, “Jochim, if you’re asleep…” He then began to walk the perimeter of the house, looking for his comrade. Geralt stepped out from behind the oak and simply repeated the Axii-gag-wire process with Norrie. 

“One left,” the witcher said as he headed to the front door. He stopped and discreetly peered through a front window. He saw a third man, with his back to the door, organizing a Gwent deck. The door creaked when Geralt opened it. 

“Jochim, I hope you’re…” was as far as the man got before Geralt hit him with an Axii.

A short time later, Geralt had all three men in the cabin - bound, gagged, blindfolded, and sitting on the floor. He found the thin book – along with a bag full of coins - under the floorboards in a small closet, right where Evie had told him it would be. He opened it but saw that it was written in an obscure variant of Elder speech, a language in which, while proficient, he was far from fluent. After grabbing the coin, some spare clothes and personal items for Evie, he then turned his attention back to the three Nilfgaardians. One of them had two placards on his person. The smaller of the two parchments had an incredibly accurate drawing of Evie’s face on it. At the top was the word “MISSING.” Under Evie’s picture were the letters “EV.” And below that, “Feared abducted. If found, please contact the alderman of Tarsus.” The second parchment was a larger, higher quality placard that, too, contained a remarkably accurate depiction of Evie. However, the wording was quite different. “WANTED. Professor Evangeline VanderBosch. For treason against the Empire. Substantial Reward. Report information to Nilfgaardian authorities.” 

Geralt questioned the men and discovered that they were part of a small detachment of soldiers in the city of Lyria. Three days ago, when a man from Tarsus had arrived in the capital city with the “Missing” posters, someone recognized “EV” as the wanted Professor. A couple of soldiers left for Vizima to contact the Emperor while these three came to Tarsus to scout out the situation and interrogate the citizens. 

The witcher stood before the Nilfgaardians and felt the urge to draw his steel. These three were a danger to Evie and, therefore, needed to die. Killing them would be the smart thing to do. Doing so would allow him and Evie at least a week’s head start on the Vizima contingent’s arrival. If he let them live, however, more than likely, a villager would get curious at some point tomorrow, enter Evie’s cabin, and then free them. That would only give them about a twelve-hour head start before a possible pursuit began. But, more than the logical reasons for killing the three men, Geralt just felt a strong desire to end their lives. The urge to kill had been inside of him for as long as he could remember. It was as natural and as constant an urge for him as breathing. These three were enemies, and he had the power to end them. He reached up and grabbed the hilt of his steel sword. He unsheathed twelve inches of blade before his hand stopped. The Butcher of Blaviken stood. He stood, not even blinking, staring at the three men. He stood, with his hand poised above his head, gripping the means of their destruction. After a solid minute, he slowly lowered the blade, the cross-guard of the sword making a light click against the scabbard.

“Don’t pursue the woman. If I see you again, you die. And you’ll never see me coming.” 

He then turned and exited the completely dark cottage. 

oOo

Geralt walked into the mine holding the wanted poster. 

“Okay, Professor, start talking. Just the fact that you more than likely pissed off his Royal Arch-magnificence makes me want to help you. But I’d still like to know what I’m getting involved with before a make a final decision.” 

Evie looked at the poster and then at the book in Geralt’s other hand. She knew, deep down, that she didn’t need the witcher’s help. She could simply go into hiding again just like she had before. But the truth was that she wanted his help. She had been alone for so long now, even from before her time in hiding, and she didn’t want to hide any longer. She didn’t want to be alone any longer. She asked herself if him saving her life and tending to her injuries weren’t enough to make her trust the man in front of her, then the fact that he brought the priceless tome to her should be, right? She nodded her head, trying her best to convince herself of her decision.

“What do you know of the legend regarding the Sword of Destruction?” she finally asked.

Geralt shook his head. 

“Never heard of it…but, let me guess. There’s some kind of confusing and vague prophecy attached to it.” 

“Yes. How did you know?” she asked with genuine surprise.

The witcher sighed, looked upward, and then shook his head. 

“Swell.” 


	5. Chapter 5

Book 1: The Wolf Awakens  
Chapter 5

“Renewal comes from the destroyer. Order from the wild. Of the same father, but not belonging. A lover of death, rebirth will come through him. Twisted yet straight, esteemed yet reviled, virgin yet marred. By his right hand, the world will be cleansed through the rod of Apophis.”

Geralt looked at Evie with a perplexed look on his face. 

“That’s it? So, let me get this straight. You stole this ancient elven tome, pissing off the Royal Bunghole, risking a death sentence…because of that? I don’t even know what the hell that means. That’s more vague and confusing than Ithlinne’s Prophecy.” 

Evie had spent the previous half hour explaining how she had come into possession of the small book. About two years prior, her Uncle Malek had come to her home in Vicovaro. He wasn’t truly her uncle, but rather her father’s first cousin. But the two men had grown up together like brothers so it always just seemed natural to call him “Uncle”. Malek had joined the Nilfgaardian armed forces as a teenager and had worked his way up the ranks - so high that Evie didn’t even know what he did or what his official rank actually was anymore.

Malek had asked Evie to come to the capital city – she refused to call it “The City of Golden Towers,” thinking that the name was both too cumbersome and pretentious to use - to help decipher some recently discovered elven tomes. But, when she arrived there, she immediately knew something was amiss. Instead of heading to the location of the discovery, which was customary, she was taken to the royal palace. She would be escorted into a room, then moments later, two armed guards would bring in a solitary book. But she could tell that the book wasn’t complete – as if it was one volume of a much larger compendium. This made deciphering the text more difficult because there were references to people, places, and events of which she simply didn’t have full knowledge. She would study its contents and, then, when finished for the day, she would knock on the door and the guards would retrieve the book and whatever notes that she had made during the session. She had asked many questions - when and where the book was discovered, if there were any other books or artifacts found with it, who had discovered the book, and so forth - but she never received any answers. Over the years, she had been hired to investigate many archeological discoveries, but none were conducted in this secretive, unorthodox manner. It was all very unsettling.

But it was the book, itself, that had Evie the most on edge. The tome told an incredible tale of the Aen Seidhe elves prior to the Conjunction of the Spheres. Whether it was a true historical account or just a fable, Evie wasn’t entirely sure, but it told the story of how the elves first arrived on the Continent. They had been living in a distant land across the sea, a land rife with conflict. It was a land marked by war, slavery, and natural disasters – everything from powerful hurricanes to fiery meteorite showers ravaged the area. The tome indicated that the elven god had promised to take them to a land free of war and chaos - to a land of peace where they would thrive and rule. 

After much debate, the elves decided to trust the promise and set sail across the tempestuous sea in gleaming white boats created by their god. But the journey was arduous – full of deadly storms, terrifying sea creatures and, at times, a shortage of food. Despite the elven god fulfilling his promise to protect his people, fear began to consume most of the Aen Seidhe. As the fear grew, so did the dissension. Soon, grumbling became common as large groups of elves voiced their discontent and their longing to return to their previous homes and way of life. Once the first ship fell back from the fleet, many others did so, as well. These ships sailed back toward the western horizon and were never seen again. 

It took many years, but a remnant of Aen Seidhe who remained steadfast to the original journey eventually reached shore, and they then settled in and colonized the Continent. As their god had promised, their land was marked by peace and prosperity. Over the next several centuries, they built amazing cities and palaces as their race continued to flourish. But, then, their story took a turn. 

A stranger mysteriously arrived in the land of the Aen Seidhe. He looked similar to the elves, but with a few minor differences – most notably, his rounded ears. His name was Apophis, and he wore white garments – so white that they were almost blinding. He possessed extreme beauty and carried a staff of immense power. Apophis promised the elves that they, too, could have this same great power. He said that he could help them gain entry into the divine realm, where their god resided. There, they could attain divine knowledge, which would lead to both understanding and power beyond their imagination. 

The elves began building a device, based on Apophis’ design, which would open a portal to this realm. There was a lone voice of opposition, an elven seer who warned against this course of action, but the Aen Seidhe leaders scoffed at his dire predictions, and the device was eventually completed. However, when it was activated, instead of opening a way to their god, the Conjunction of the Spheres occurred, bringing mayhem to the entire planet. The Conjunction of the Spheres opened hundreds of portals to different worlds, through which arrived humans, vampires, draconids, necrophages, harpies and all the other types of alien species that now inhabited the Continent. Additionally, the primordial Chaos – the magical force that permeates nature – seemed to suddenly appear at this time. Prior to the Conjunction, there were no magic users, but shortly after, the first mages and sorceresses stepped onto the pages of history.

While not mentioned in the tome, it was common knowledge that the elven nation would never be the same. Over time, the humans grew to be the dominant race on the planet. The elves eventually became marginalized, forced to live in ghettos or in the forests. Their cities and palaces were destroyed and turned to ruins. What the tome did mention next was the prophecy related to the rod of Apophis. And that discovery – according to Evie - was what made her choose to flee with the book. 

As Geralt listened to Evie’s tale, something was niggling in the back of his mind. While most would say that a witcher’s greatest asset was his mutation-enhanced, physical skills, Geralt believed that his most formidable tool was his mind. While he couldn’t invade other’s thoughts like certain sorceresses could, he had developed – after a century of living - the ability to read and understand people. He had become an expert at deciphering non-verbal cues. He knew that a person’s stance, a licking of the lips, how they held their hands were all significant tells. The way a person shifted their eyes – either up and to the left or up and to the right – gave clues as to whether they were trying to recall a factual event or fabricating a lie. That ability – to “hear” what wasn’t explicitly being said - had saved his life more times than he could count. And while he was fairly certain – or at least hoped - that Evie wasn’t being deceitful in the telling of her story, there was still something about it that just didn’t sit right with him. There was a piece of the puzzle missing. He just couldn’t figure out what it was, yet. 

“I’ll be honest, Geralt, I don’t really know what the prophecy means either. What most interests me is the last line.” 

“And why is that?”

“Because it makes me believe that the legend regarding the Sword of Destruction might just be true.”

“So…this rod of Apophis is the same as the Sword of Destruction?”

“Possibly. There are several similarities. First, the word in the Elder speech that is translated ‘rod’ could also mean ‘staff’ or ‘sword.’ Second, the legend tells of a sword of unspeakable power. The legend also states that it’s a sword not of elven origin, but one that is as old as - if not older - than the elves themselves. A sword with the power to destroy entire nations. Reading this prophecy makes me think that this sword actually does exist. And if so, I was not about to let Emperor var Emreis find out about it.”

“Why not? I know that you are not a ‘true’ Nilfgaardian since you weren’t born there, but you were still born and raised in a province of the Empire. I would think you’d want him to solidify his power.”

“Geralt, if the Sword of Destruction actually exists and if it truly does hold the power to destroy nations, then I don’t want anyone to possess it.”

Geralt nodded. “Okay. That explains why you stole the book, but, then, why keep it? Why not just burn it?” 

Evie sighed. “Two reasons. One, I’m a historian – a chronicler of past events – and I just couldn’t bring myself to do that. And two, I figured that as long as I’m alive, destroying it won’t serve any purpose anyway. Because even if I burn the book, if they catch me, then I have no doubt that they will have a variety of ways to make me tell them what I know.” 

The witcher nodded his head. “No doubt. We’ll just have to make sure they don’t find you.” 

Geralt walked to the cave entrance and looked out toward the darkened valley below. He had previously extinguished the small campfire inside the mine so he had no fears of his silhouette being visible. 

“How well known is this legend – the Sword of Destruction? I ask because I’ve never heard of it and I’m a century old.”

“It’s not well known – if at all - outside of the elven community. The Aen Seidhe are quite secretive of their history.”

“Well, I’d say that it’s pretty obvious that no one, including var Emreis, actually possesses the sword. Either that, or it’s not as powerful as the legend claims. Because, if he had it, he’d be using it to wipe out his enemies. That said, do you think the Emperor knows about the sword, knows of its existence?”

“I have my suspicions. Given how secretive and unforthcoming everyone was regarding the discovery, given how they kept me isolated, then, I certainly think that they knew they had found clues to something incredibly important. I’m very doubtful that I was the first or only researcher brought in by Emhyr. I’m betting, though, that they just weren’t sure of the details – like the sword’s location. Plus, my father also knew about the legend of the sword. And as I’ve mentioned to you previously, he worked very briefly for the Emperor many years ago – just prior to his death. Heck, as far as I know, finding the sword could have been what my father was working on for Emhyr. So, to answer your question, yes, I think Emhyr knows about it.”

Geralt furrowed his brows. There was another niggling feeling in his mind again.

“What exactly do you know about your father’s death?” 

“Just what I was told by Uncle Malek. I was living and studying in Oxenfurt at the time so I didn’t find out about it for several weeks. Malek came up personally and said that both my dad and mom had been murdered in their home. Thieves had broken in one night and stolen some items and killed them both. That’s also when I found out that my dad had been hired by the Emperor shortly prior to that.”

The witcher looked hard at Evie. “I hope you don’t think that’s just a coincidence. That son-of-a-bitch would murder his own mother just to win a round of Gwent.” Geralt paused for a moment in thought. “So, why not go to your uncle with your concerns, with the tome?”

“It did cross my mind, but the truth is that my overwhelming thought at the time was to just get as far away as possible. Plus, I’ll be honest, I don’t know if he would have helped me.”

“He’d choose the Emperor over his own kin?” 

“Well, perhaps, not the Emperor himself, but for Nilfgaard…?” She didn’t finish the thought and simply shrugged. “He’s a true patriot, Geralt. I doubt that there’s anything he wouldn’t do if he thought it was for the good of the Empire.”

“Yeah, I’ve met people like that. They’re hard to trust. So, you had no other friends or family to turn to? You once mentioned that you had brothers.”

“Yes, but I didn’t want to put anyone else in danger.”

“I hate to break this to you, Professor, but you already have. If I was hunting you, the first place I’d look is your family and friends. And when they told me that they didn’t know where you are, then I’d go to great lengths to ensure that they were telling me the truth. As you said, the Emperor and his men have ways to find out what they want to know.”

Evie’s eyes got incredibly wide. “We have to get to Dol Blathanna!”

“And why is that?”

“My grandmother is there,” she said frantically, starting to gather her belongings. 

Geralt narrowed his eyes as he looked at Evie. “Your grandmother lives in the elven province?”

She hesitated. “Yes…she’s…she’s full-blood Aen Seidhe.” She waited to see what the witcher’s reaction would be, but he just looked at her for several long seconds. 

“Evie, I’m not sure that going to your grandmother – or any family member – is a wise decision,” Geralt said calmly. “As I said, that’s what they probably expected you to do two years ago. It’s what they’d expect you to do now. The wise choice is to do the opposite of what they’d expect. I can hide you someplace safe.”

She shook her head. “No, Geralt. Two years ago, it didn’t even cross my mind that they might torture my family for information on me. But you’re right. That’s something they would do. And I couldn’t live with myself if my family was harmed and I didn’t even try to warn them. I mean, what kind of person would that make me?”

“So, you’re willing to risk getting caught and that book falling into the Emperor’s hands all on the remote chance that your grandmother might be in danger? We don’t even truly know where she is, Evie. And, not to be harsh, but we don’t even know if she’s still alive.” 

“Maybe so, but, yes…I’m willing to risk my life to keep my family safe.”

The witcher stared at Evie in silence and then finally exhaled deeply and nodded his head. 

“Okay. Then, grab your things. We’re leaving now.” 

oOo

The predominant chain of the Blue Mountains ran mostly north and south, creating the eastern border for the northern kingdoms. However, there was a ridge of mountains that jutted out, running east to west, which separated the kingdom of Lyria from Dol Blathanna, a small region given to the Aen Seidhe elves by the Emperor. Regardless of whether any one admitted it or not, it was land that had been bestowed to the elves in exchange for their guerilla warfare against the armies of the Northern kingdoms. No one actually believed that the Emperor cared about the elves or their right for an independent, free nation. He had only used them as a tool to disrupt the northern rulers’ war efforts. Many elves were convinced that once Nilfgaard defeated the Redanian forces, the Emperor would turn his focus upon them. Of course, for the Nilfgaardian military to find the Aen Seidhe, it’d have to search in the Blue Mountains east of Dol Blathanna as there were very few elves in the valley any longer. They had been pushed off their land by encroaching humans and, therefore, now lived up in the mountains to the east. At one point, several thousand elves had lived in the Dol Blathanna region, but that number had dwindled significantly since many had fought and died in both the second and third Northern Wars. In fact, given the low birth rate of the Aen Seidhe and that their mortality rate was far outpacing their number of births each year, the Aen Seidhe nation was on verge of becoming extinct.

Geralt had explained to Evie that the two of them essentially had only two paths to the elven province. They could stay on the plains and travel around the mountain ridge, which would take six or seven days. Or, they could travel in a straight, northern line over the ridge. This would, in theory, cut the travel time in half, but it also posed significant dangers. Geralt was aware that the mountainous region was a potential dwelling place for several types of unpleasant creatures. 

“We have to get there as soon as possible,” had been Evie’s answer. 

The following afternoon found Geralt and Evie high in the Blue Mountains, with only a couple of hours of sunlight left. They had just reached a small, grass-covered plateau after having spent the last hour climbing upward over very difficult terrain. The climb had been so steep and the footing so treacherous that Geralt had advised that they dismount their horses and traverse on foot. He was worried that if Evie’s horse slipped while she was riding, then she would be severely injured either from being thrown from the saddle or from being crushed under the horse’s weight if it fell on top of her.

Evie stopped once she reached the top of the plateau. Bent over, with her hands on her knees, she was breathing quite heavily. Her body was covered in sweat, making her blouse and pants cling to her body. Geralt had dropped Roach’s reins, had walked several paces ahead, and was standing in the middle of the meadow facing away from her. 

“Geralt, can we stop for a drink?” she asked between deep breaths. 

When he didn’t answer, she looked up and said, “Geralt, I need –” but she didn’t finish the sentence. She was too startled by the sight before her to speak. Lightning-like, orange bolts of energy were flashing around Geralt’s body in all directions, creating a shimmering sort of shield around him. From her research, she assumed it to be the result of him casting the Quen Sign, but it was still astonishing to see in person. She then noticed that the witcher had his sword in his hand. Suddenly, multiple events seemingly happened all at once. Six creatures – all of a humanoid shape but with long, sharp claws – appeared to miraculously spring up from the ground around Geralt. Both horses whinnied loudly, reared back on their hind legs, and ran off to evade the danger. At the same time, Geralt slammed the ground with an Aard Sweep. The telekinetic force not only knocked all of the monsters backward several feet, but it also reached Evie, who, even though she was a good fifteen feet away, in her weakened state, fell backward onto her behind. She saw the witcher throw some type of bomb in front of him, and when it hit the ground, the explosion “froze” the creatures in that area. But, before it had even detonated, Geralt had already started his attack on the monsters at his rear. 

Evie had never seen anything like it. The monster-slayer was spinning and twisting his body between the creatures, avoiding their attacks, while at the same time twirling his sword around his torso so fast that it was just a blur. He was transferring the sword between his two hands more seamlessly than she could have done so with a fork, and it seemed that with every twist and spin he was drawing blood. She sat there in awe as she watched this professional killer slice his way through three of the monsters and then turn his attention to the other three that were just “thawing out” from whatever bomb he had thrown their way. She was mesmerized by his skill. It was as if he and his sword were dance partners, moving with a graceful fluidity to music that only he could hear. If not for the horrible cries of pain coming from the beasts and all of the blood and body parts flying through the air, she would have considered it quite beautiful. 

And then, as quickly as it started, it was over. She got up and stood on two shaky legs, adrenaline coursing through her body. She looked around the small meadow. The horses had fled and were hiding in a thicket of trees. Monster corpses covered the ground at the witcher’s feet, and there was blood on several areas of his armor. She hoped that none of it was his. 

She started to ask him just exactly what those creatures were, but before she could get a word from her mouth, she saw him drop his sword and reach behind his back. She stood frozen and wide-eyed as he pulled out his crossbow and aimed at her. Before she could move, she heard a noise behind her and then a “thrum” pass by her ear. She screamed and turned to see a monster on the ground with an arrow through its neck, gurgling noises emanating from its throat. Suddenly, Geralt was in front of her, driving his sword through the downed creature’s heart. 

He immediately turned to Evie, pulled her into a hug, and whispered into her ear, “There could be more. We need to stay quiet. Understand?” 

Her entire body was trembling, but he clearly felt her nod her head against his. 

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly. 

She nodded her head again. 

He then took a step back, looked closely at her body, and then whispered, “Turn around. Let me check your back.” 

The witcher knew that adrenaline could temporarily mask any pain from injuries so he wanted to verify for himself that she hadn’t been harmed. Post-conjunction creatures were dangerous for a lot of reasons, one being that they carried a tremendous amount of disease and pestilence. For a normal human being, simply being scratched by one could lead to a slow and painful death due to infection running rampant. He let out a sigh as he saw that, luckily, her clothing was neither ripped nor blood stained. 

His inspection complete, he turned and faced the meadow. He reached up and lightly placed the fingertips of his left hand on his wolf-head medallion and then turned his head to speak softly to Evie over his shoulder, “Stay here, and don’t move.”

As he went to take a step, he felt resistance from behind. He looked over his shoulder again to see Evie wide-eyed and with a death-grip on the scabbard of his steel sword.  
  
“Are you crazy? Don’t leave me here,” she mouthed to him. 

She didn’t know where he was going or what he was planning to do, but she knew being next to him was the safest place she could ever be.

Geralt sighed and whispered back, “I need you to trust me.” 

Evie looked hard at the witcher with a clenched jaw. He stared back at her, slightly nodding his head, until she finally gave him a single nod of her own. 

At that point, Geralt placed his fingertips on his medallion again and began walking in a very slow and deliberate pattern across the meadow. Occasionally, he’d stop, kneel down, and turn his head as if listening intently. It took him about fifteen minutes – to Evie it felt like an hour - to make his way around the entire meadow. Eventually, he stopped, turned to Evie, and motioned for her to come to him. As she approached him, she saw that he was standing next to a mound of dirt, approximately three feet tall and ten feet in diameter. In the center of the mound was a hole, roughly three feet across. Once she reached him, he grabbed her gently by the elbow and steered her several yards away from the dirt mound.

“We can talk now, but it’d still be best if we keep our voices low,” he said in a whisper.

“What is that?” she asked, nodding her head at the mound.

“Nekker nest,” he replied.

“It took you that long to find it?”

“No. I saw it immediately.”

“Then, what were you doing for the last fifteen minutes?”

“Seeing if there were any more of those little bastards just below the surface, waiting to surprise us.”

“They live underground?”

“Not always – sometimes in caves. But, typically, yeah. Deep underground in a den composed of several lairs, connected by an extensive network of tunnels. This ‘nest’ here is the primary entry and exit point, but it may not be their only one. And even if it is, and even if I destroy it, that won’t kill or permanently trap any of the other nekkers still living below. As you saw, they can dig their way out of their tunnels straight up through the soil.”

Evie looked around and then took a step closer to Geralt so that they were virtually touching. 

“So those that you just killed aren’t the only ones?” 

“I don’t know. My medallion didn’t vibrate and I didn’t hear anything dangerous, but it’s doubtful. Seven adults would make for a pretty small den. At the very least, there are probably a few mother nekkers still down there with their brood.”

“Nekker _babies_?” 

“Yeah. Where do you think the adults come from?” he asked in a mildly sarcastic tone. 

“Hell, I don’t know!” Evie exclaimed in a very excited whisper. “For all I know, they hatch out of giant eggs, already fully grown. I’m a historian not a zoologist.”

Geralt immediately looked contrite. Evie’s fear was palpable so he realized that he needed to be patient with her. He nodded his head. 

“You’re right. Sorry. I’m just…I’m not used to having company on the Path, having to answer all these questions. I’m sorry, okay?”

She looked into his eyes and gave a nod of her head. “Okay,” she whispered.

“Look, we’ve got a couple of options,” he continued. “One, I can destroy this nest, and we ride out of here immediately. But that means leaving the other nekkers – however many there are down there - alive. Or, two, I can try to eradicate the entire den. But that could take many hours – maybe even a couple days’ worth - of work. So, what do you want to do?” 

“Me? Why are you asking me?”

Geralt peered at her oddly. “Why wouldn’t I? We’re in this together, right?”

Evie looked at him with surprise and then asked, “What would you normally do?”

“Well, if this was a contract, then, obviously, I’d kill ‘em all.”

“Even the _babies_?” Evie’s eyes were wide.

Geralt raised an eyebrow at her. “Yeah, even the cute, cuddly nekker babies,” he replied, a touch of sarcasm coming through again. “They don’t stay that way long, you know.”

Evie quickly looked down, her cheeks flushing red. 

“Right. Of course,” she said, looking back at the witcher. “But…this isn’t a contract, so what would you normally do in this case?” 

“Simple. I’d ride on. I’m a witcher. I exterminate monsters for coin. No coin, then I don’t bother. That’s just bad business. Plus, we should probably leave ‘em for the Nilfgaardians, just in case we’re being followed. They deserve each other.”

Evie was silent for a moment. “But…we’re not that far away – less than a day - from Tarsus and even closer to the mines. Could these nekkers be a danger to anyone there?”

Geralt thought for a moment and then nodded his head.

“Well, probably not anytime soon, but, by next spring…sure, the nekkers could migrate that way by then. Anything’s possible.” 

Upon hearing that, Evie acquired a very serious look on her face and, then, turned and walked over to her horse. Geralt watched as she searched through the saddlebags for a minute, apparently found what she was looking for, and then returned to stand before him. She presented her hand, now holding her bag full of coin. 

“How much?” she asked.

“For what?”

“I’m hiring you – to kill the rest of the nekkers. How much?”

The witcher furrowed his brows. “I thought we were in a hurry. Your grandmother, remember?”

“Of course, I remember. How much?”

The Butcher of Blaviken shook his head slightly. “I know that I may have made things look easy before, but this could be very dangerous, Evie. The smart decision is to move on.”

She looked into his eyes. “I spent two years in Tarsus. I have friends there. People that I care about…that care about me. Tayron is my friend. His daughter, Clara…was my friend. So…how much?”

Geralt sighed. “What currency do you have?”

“Mostly orens.”

“A hundred,” the witcher responded almost immediately.

Evie had a slightly shocked look on her face. “You’re actually gonna – You’re going to charge me that much?”

“Are you kidding? A nekker nest usually runs 200. I’m giving you a discount. First, because those seven dead are on the house since, technically, I wasn’t on contract at the time. Second, because we simply don’t have time to do this properly, fully. That could take two or three days. I’ll have to do a partial job.”   
  
“How long would this partial job take?”

“Maybe…three hours.”

“Deal.” 

She counted out the appropriate coins, placing them in his hands as she went along. 

“You’re hired,” she stated, peering into his eyes with a determined look on her face. “So, what do we have to do?” 

“Well, first, you can hang on to these,” he replied as he dumped the money back into her coin purse. “I’ll have to climb down into the nest and then -”

“What? Are you insane? You’re going to climb down there with them?”

“Well, my sanity is debatable, but you asked about it so let me finish.” 

He then described to her what the “partial” plan consisted of, and after hearing it, Evie decided that he was insane. 

“I change my mind. I don’t want you to do this. You’re right. It’s too dangerous.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at her and shook his head. 

“Too late. The terms of the contract have been settled, and the money’s exchanged hands. I’m now obligated to follow through with it.” 

Evie looked exasperated. “What? Why? Is that some kind of witcher code?”

“No. No code. It’s just the honorable thing to do – following through with my word. Next time, discuss the details of the contract before agreeing to it.”

“Well…you…you put the coin back in my money bag so…what if I tell you that I won’t give it back to you even if you do the job?” 

The witcher squinted his eyes at her for a moment, and then he shrugged. 

“That’s entirely your choice…but I am going to attempt the contract. That’s my choice. And, if, when I finish the job, you choose to refuse payment, then so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time I got cheated. But that’ll be an awfully deep stain of dishonor on your character. Have fun with that.”

Evie glared at the witcher. “You know what? You’re just mean. You don’t fight fair at all.” 

“I know,” Geralt replied with a small smirk. “I learned from the best. Can I start now?”

Evie nodded. “Okay, but please be careful.”

oOo

Over the next two hours, Evie was captivated as she watched the witcher go about his business. He had taken Evie and their horses over the next ridge – away from the nekker-infested meadow - and proceeded to build a small fire. Out of Roach’s saddlebags, he had removed numerous types of plants, flowers, and foul-smelling animal parts; different-sized bottles containing multicolored liquids; small tubs of both paste-like and sand-like substances; and a variety of other alchemical ingredients that Evie had never seen before. He had warned her to stand back from the fire since just breathing in some of the fumes of what he was creating could be potentially fatal to her. 

Evie couldn’t take her eyes off the witcher. It was clear to her that Geralt was truly in his element. He knelt before the fire with all of the ingredients and half a dozen, small, metal bowls laid out before him. He eventually had four to five different preparations going at once, and his movements were methodical, sure, efficient, and non-stop. As soon as he finished meticulously measuring and adding an ingredient to one potion, he was immediately on to the next. She was already impressed with his skill due to having witnessed the White Wolf in combat twice in the past week, but, now, she was seeing another side of the witcher that was increasing her respect for the man even more. Watching Geralt work just cemented in Evie’s mind the belief that becoming a witcher wasn’t simply and only a by-product of having a mutated body. There was much more to it than that. It was a true profession – a profession that required a vast knowledge of the world’s flora and fauna, an intense amount of discipline, obvious years of training, and an incredible attention-to-detail. She shook her head as she noted that none of those facts about witchers could be found in the book, Monstrum. 

Geralt eventually finished his preparations and, then, reviewed with her in detail the plan for the impending action. Before heading back down the slope to the nekker nest, Evie watched him cover both his silver sword and a knife with a reddish-brown oil and then place them back into their respective scabbards – the sword on his back and the knife on the lateral side of his right thigh. He then strapped a bandolier across his chest that contained more than a dozen bombs of different shapes and sizes. 

“One final warning,” cautioned the monster-slayer. “I’m about to take three witcher elixirs. These are highly dangerous to humans. So, after this is over, be careful not to touch me. Even if I’m bleeding – especially, if I’m bleeding. My blood is going to be toxic to you. Hell, even my sweat could be poisonous to you. Got it?”

Evie nodded her head in response, and then Geralt handed her two small vials. The liquid in one looked reddish-orange while the other was slightly more viscous and the color of a chicken egg. 

“I hope you don’t have to use these, but they’re for if…things go south. If I get out of the nest but am highly injured or if I fall unconscious, then force me to drink these - the white one first, followed by the orange. But make sure that the liquid does not even touch your skin. Okay?”

“Got it. Orange first, then white.”

Geralt’s eyes flashed. “No, damn it. White first, then orange. Evie, you have to pay attention.”

“I know. I know. I was trying to tease you…” She had a very tentative smile on her face, which quickly disappeared to be replaced by her biting her lower lip. “…because I’m about to piss my pants.”

Suddenly, the Wolf’s face softened. “Hey, I told you that I can do this myself, remember? You don’t have to go down there with me.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m going to help. I need to help.”

Geralt stared at her for a moment, nodded his head, and then reached out and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. He then led her and Roach down toward the darkened meadow. The sun had set by this time, and the stars in the sky were quite visible, but with only a quarter moon present, there wasn’t much illumination. With her vision now hampered by the darkness, it seemed to Evie that her other senses, particularly her hearing, were heightened. She noticed the gentle breeze rustling the leaves, and the sound of Roach stepping on and snapping a dead tree limb on the ground sounded to her ears like an entire tree falling in the forest. With every little noise detected, Evie was jerking her head from side to side, expecting it to be a vicious, little nekker jumping out of the ground, ready to pounce. She instinctively reached up and touched the bandolier that was running diagonally across her breasts and then moved her hand upward until she felt a small metal and glass canister. The bandolier was one of Geralt’s spares, and on it, he’d placed three Northern Wind bombs. 

“Just don’t drop them…or throw them at me,” he’d instructed earlier. “And, if you see a nekker, toss it at him, and then turn and run to your horse. Ride fast and don’t look back.”  
  
Once they were within thirty feet of the nekker nest, the witcher turned Roach so that she was facing away from the nest, retrieved a long, thick rope from his gear, and then expertly tied one end of the rope to Roach’s saddle. He then walked towards the creatures’ lair. After tying the other end of the rope around his waist, he paused to listen intently one more time, all while lightly touching his medallion with his left hand. He then nodded, turned to Evie, and stated, “I hope to be back in about five minutes. And, remember, if you hear me yell at you to run, then you run.” 

Evie’s heart was pounding so hard that she could feel it in her ears. Sweat was dripping off her fingertips and nose, and her mouth was so dry she could barely swallow. This was a much worse experience than the previous nekker attack two hours prior. That had been completely unexpected for her, and the whole bloody, violent affair had ended so quickly that her mind hadn’t had the chance to truly be nervous until the attack was already over. But, now, her mind had nothing to do but worry. Evie realized that while the witcher was completely in his element, she was completely out of hers.

She watched as Geralt uncorked the three vials of witcher potions. One, in particular, caught Evie’s eye. It was bluish-green and looked to be almost glowing. The White Wolf drank them down quickly one at a time. She heard the monster-slayer breathe in deeply and, then, he clenched his fists tightly and held his breath. After almost ten seconds, he finally exhaled, and as he did, she thought she heard what sounded like a low growl coming from his throat. And, then, Evie watched the witcher, without another word or even a look in her direction, drop out of sight, down into the darkness. 

oOo

Author’s Note:  
The idea of a nekker nest being an interconnected network of tunnels was inspired by an early chapter of the story, “A Scholar’s Travels with a Witcher,” by Spike368. 


	6. Chapter 6

Book 1: The Wolf Awakens  
Chapter 6

Geralt jumped into the opening of the nekker nest and slid on his left side down a sloped tunnel, but the trip lasted less than two seconds. He shot out of the tunnel feet first and landed softly in a crouched position onto the ground floor of the communal lair. Earlier, on the ridge, Evie had asked Geralt why he simply couldn’t exterminate the nekkers by dropping a bomb into the nest. He had explained that no nekkers actually lived in the initial lair. It acted like an entry hall. Branching out from this communal lair of the nest, there would be numerous other tunnels leading outward and slightly downward to the other lairs where the nekkers actually ate, slept, rutted and whatever else nekkers did in their spare time. 

The nest was pitch black, but having taken a shot of the Cat potion, Geralt could clearly see his surroundings and see that he was alone. But the witcher didn’t immediately jump into action. He stayed in his crouched position, not moving a muscle, as he let his witcher senses take over. The stench was overpowering. The pungent odor of decay and excrement was like a punch to the nose. Sometimes, possessing super-enhanced senses was actually a detriment, the witcher thought to himself. He swiveled his head to see four separate openings to tunnels leading elsewhere and, then, focused on listening to each of the tunnels. He could detect the faintest of sounds. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was hearing – most likely some type of nekker activity - but he could tell that whatever was making the noise was not nearby. It was fortunate that the monster-slayer was attacking at night. Nekkers were not, naturally, nocturnal creatures. They had a sleep cycle that was more or less similar to humans, which meant that Geralt hoped that any nekkers below had already “bedded down” for the evening. 

He slowly began to rise from his crouched position. As he looked up, he saw that the ceiling of the lair was perhaps only five feet from the floor. In addition, the semi-circular lair was only about eight feet in diameter. This was going to, potentially, complicate things for the witcher. There was no way that he’d be able to wield his sword adequately in such an enclosed space. Swordplay wasn’t part of the initial plan anyway, but the fact that he wouldn’t be able to use his favorite weapon made him wince. For he knew that even the best of strategies usually went to hell as soon as first contact was made with the enemy. Many times, to his utter disappointment, his opponents simply didn’t act according to his plans.

The White Wolf stepped over to the nearest tunnel and then knelt before it. From his bandolier, he grabbed two bombs – one each of Devil’s Puffball and Dragon’s Dream, while keeping the Dancing Star bomb in place. When crafting bombs, witchers could pick from a variety of canisters or containers in which to pour the explosive components. The type of canister that was chosen was determined, one, by the specific needs of the objective – for example, did the witcher need an immediate or delayed detonation; two, by the degree of volatility and combustibility of the ingredients, and; three, by the state of matter – that is, liquid, gas, or gel – of the internal components. Each canister had to be crafted to exacting standards. The last thing that a witcher wanted was a faulty canister exploding while still in his hand or while on his bandolier. Thus, Geralt trusted no one to create his bomb containers but himself. Each winter, when he was back at Kaer Morhen, he would spend countless hours in the lab working with various metals and numerous kinds of glass, resin, sap, wax and other components to craft more than a hundred different types of empty bomb “shells.” There were bombs that exploded on contact; some that used a lit fuse for detonation purposes; and others that kept the internal components separated until, through a twisting of a specific mechanism, the ingredients mixed. With this last type of canister, after activating the necessary mechanism, the witcher would vigorously shake the bomb and, then, had about three seconds before the ingredients reacted sufficiently to explode. 

For the attack against the nekkers, Geralt had known that he couldn’t use bombs that exploded on contact for he simply had no idea how long each tunnel was. There was no way that he was going to crawl down into each individual lair. Even for a witcher, that was suicide. Therefore, to make sure that the explosive device reached the lair at the end of the tunnel, he was going to have to throw the bomb with great force, which precluded the use of the first type of canister – the “detonation on contact” kind. In addition, the highly combustible components of the Dancing Star bomb prevented him from using the twist-and-shake type of cannister. Thus, while still up on the ridge, the witcher had been very precise in choosing the specific canister-type for each individual explosive.   
  
Geralt quietly moved over to the next tunnel and placed a Devil’s Puffball and Dragon’s Dream on the ground in front of it. He then did the same for each of the other two openings. There was now a total of eight bombs on the ground – two in front of each tunnel – and four Dancing Star bombs still on his bandolier. Since the Dancing Star made the biggest explosion and loudest noise, the witcher’s plan was to throw the first two bombs down each tunnel and, then, quickly go back and ignite and toss down the Dancing Star. He was afraid that if he detonated all three bombs in the first tunnel at once, then the Dancing Star explosion would alert the nekkers in the other lairs, and they’d either head to the communal lair in a counter-attack or dig their way to the surface to escape before he had the chance to send bombs into their living quarters. Geralt breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. He then picked up a Devil’s Puffball and thought to himself, “Here we go.”

oOo

Evie’s nerves were wrecked. It had only been about two minutes since Geralt had disappeared down the nekker nest, but in that time, Evie swore she’d heard a dozen sounds indicating an impending nekker attack. And with each sound, her heart rate continued to climb. Since she was standing next to Roach, the bay mare easily picked up on Evie’s fear and neighed and stamped a front hoof. Then, because Evie began to worry that, standing so far from the nest, she wouldn’t be able to hear Geralt if he called out a warning to her, she tentatively began walking towards the pitch-black opening. On her next step forward, Roach neighed again, making her jump. She looked over her shoulder with a glare at the horse and reached up to grasp tightly the Northern Wind bomb on her chest. She took another tentative step forward, her eyes darting to the nest, then to her left and right, and back to the nest again. She was halfway there when the hair on the back of her neck suddenly stood up. She immediately spun around, her eyes scanning the darkness. She couldn’t see anything but instantly ran back to Roach’s side. 

“How about we stick together, huh, girl?” she asked as she stroked the horse’s neck. 

And, then, Evie heard it. A distant thump coming from deep below the earth. And she knew that Roach sensed it too for the mare neighed again – this time, much more loudly than before - and the powerful muscles under her slick hide twitched in anticipation and fear.

oOo

Geralt cursed. He had just tossed a Dancing Star bomb down the third tunnel and was moving with haste to the fourth - and last - opening. The explosion from the first tunnel had pushed a wave of dust up into the communal lair, hindering visibility. But that was not what had Geralt on edge. It was that the second Dancing Star bomb had not detonated. He hoped that the Devil’s Puffball had incapacitated whatever nekkers were in that second lair, but Geralt knew what type of luck he had, and it wasn’t that good. He snatched a Dancing Star bomb from his bandolier, and as he twisted his fingers for the Igni Sign and lit the fuse, he sensed his wolf-head medallion begin to twitch. He reared his arm back to toss the bomb as hard as he could down the tunnel when he was hit from behind, the bomb falling from his grip. 

“Whuuueeehkuuueeehkuu!” 

An angry nekker squealed loudly in the witcher’s ear – an angry nekker that was on his back and attempting to claw out his eyes. The force of the nekker’s attack caused Geralt to bounce off the wall of the lair and ricochet towards the opposite side, the vicious beast on his back the entire time. Geralt tucked his chin to his chest and covered his face with his left forearm to protect his eyes from the nekker’s claws. At the same time, he reached down to his right thigh, grabbed the hilt of his knife, and in a quick, upward thrust over his right shoulder, slammed six inches of blade right through the nekker’s eye socket and into its brain. 

The nekker corpse fell instantly from his back, and the witcher began frantically looking for the bomb on the ground. He saw the bomb’s fuse burning near the entrance of the fourth tunnel, and as he scrambled over to pick it up, his medallion jerked again. He turned just in time. A second nekker slashed at him with its right claw, but Geralt caught its wrist in his left hand before it could draw blood with its razor-sharp, six-inch nails. As the creature brought its left claw up to slash Geralt’s face, he again tucked his chin to his chest and threw his right forearm up to protect his eyes. Instead of pushing forward against the nekker, he took a quick step backwards and pulled the creature towards him to throw it off balance, and then he immediately and repeatedly began piercing the nekker’s abdomen, with five, six, seven deep thrusts of his knife – each thrust penetrating up to the hilt. While the energy and life were leaking out of the nasty creature, it didn’t die instantly and was still holding on to Geralt, attempting to inflict damage. 

With his head still ducked down for protection, the witcher’s eyes were desperately searching for the bomb at his feet. He caught a glimpse of the explosive device slightly behind him, its fuse just burning down into the metal canister. The witcher kicked backwards, his heel making partial contact with the bomb, forcing it to roll slowly into the fourth tunnel. Geralt forcefully shifted his weight and twisted his body, using the momentum to toss the nearly-lifeless nekker into the tunnel. He immediately dove to the far side of the lair and covered his ears just before a fiery explosion blew the nekker’s body to bits and back out of the tunnel and into the lair. 

Geralt groggily got to his feet, his ears slightly ringing. He searched for the tunnel that led to the surface, but there was too much dirt, dust, and smoke in the air, blocking his vision. He had no idea in which direction was the exit. He, then, felt his medallion vibrate for the third time. 

“Damn it,” he cursed again. He reached down to grab the rope around his waist, but it was completely slack.

“Evie! Pull! Pull!” the witcher yelled. 

He expected the rope to immediately pull taut, but nothing happened, except for his medallion continuing to twitch on its chain. 

“Evie! Pull!”

He heard a squeal from a nekker somewhere to his left, though he couldn’t see it amidst the dust and smoke filling the lair. Then, he heard another squeal from a nekker to his right. 

“Swell,” he said to himself.

oOo

When the second bomb exploded, Roach began to lose her composure, whinnying several times and stamping her hooves. Evie reached out and grabbed her bridle with her left hand while rubbing her neck with her right and trying to soothe her with soft words. 

“It’ll be okay. He knows what he’s doing. It’ll be okay.” She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince more – herself or the horse. 

Moments later, a third bomb detonated, its explosion much louder and much closer. To Evie, it sounded like it came from just inside the nekker nest. Roach, her eyes going wide, let loose with an ear-splitting scream and started half-bucking, half-running in circles. Evie, who still had a hold on the mare’s bridle, was suddenly taken for a ride. She almost immediately lost her footing, and as she fell, the bridle broke free of her grip. As she was falling to the ground, she had just enough presence of mind to twist her body so that she landed on her back, sparing the three Northern Wind bombs strapped across her chest. As she got to her knees, she noticed two things - Roach still running in circles and Geralt shouting her name from down below.

She staggered to her feet and ran towards Roach, but the skittish mare reared back on her hind legs, not allowing the historian to get close. Then, Evie heard Geralt yelling out for her again. In an instant, she made a decision and ran towards the nekker nest, shocked to see what looked like smoke spewing from the hole. She skidded to a stop, snatched up the slack rope in her hands, and then began pulling as hard and fast as she could. 

oOo

Though he couldn’t see them, Geralt sensed the two nekkers coming closer. He dropped to one knee, hoping that the monsters’ vision was as impaired as his and that if they dove for him, they’d fly over his head. And then, from his crouched position, the monster-slayer let loose with a continuous blast of Igni with his left hand, starting at his left and moving towards his right. Both nekkers caught fire and began to squeal even more loudly than before, and then, suddenly, Geralt felt a tug on the rope around his waist. He reached down with his right hand to discover both good news and bad. The good news was that the slack had been pulled out of the rope and he could now determine in which direction was the exit. The bad news was that he was on the opposite side of the lair from the exit, with two burning but still dangerous nekkers in his way. 

He slammed the ground with an Aard Sweep, knocking the nekkers off their feet but also dowsing the flames and, then, immediately ran towards where he thought the exit would be. He hit the wall of the lair with his shoulder and frantically – like a blind-folded man – moved his hands around the wall until he at last found what he was looking for. He jumped head-first into the exit, but as he began crawling up the hole, he felt an intense pain in his right butt cheek. A nekker had lunged for him, its long claws piercing right through Geralt’s treated leather trousers and into his meaty rump. The witcher rolled onto his right side and began blindly kicking backwards with his left leg, hoping to connect with the nekker’s face. All the while, the nekker’s razor-like nails were pulling downward, tearing the witcher’s skin and muscle. He eventually made solid contact and felt the nekker’s grip loosen. He kicked again and then scrambled upward. 

oOo

Evie was pulling on the rope with all her might, while also yelling at Roach, “Run, you idiot! Run that way!” 

But the mare wasn’t listening. She was no longer bucking or running, just standing in place while stamping her hooves on the ground in agitation and neighing in a high-pitched tone. Suddenly and unexpectedly, the tautness left the rope, and Evie fell backwards onto the grassy ground. She looked up to see Geralt frantically crawling out of the nekker nest, but her relief was short-lived, immediately replaced by terror as she watched three nekkers emerge right behind the witcher. 

The monster-killer, now on his feet, turned to face the three creatures. He reached up, grabbed the hilt of his silver sword, and unsheathed the blade from its scabbard. 

With a sneer on his face, he growled, “Now, you’re dead.” 

Unfortunately, Geralt and Evie weren’t alone in seeing the nekkers. Roach saw them, too, immediately reared up on her hind legs, and then took off like she’d been stung by a hornet. Geralt, too focused on the three beasts, didn’t even notice. As he was just getting ready to strike, he was suddenly jerked backwards by the rope still tied around his waist and was yanked along the ground in Roach’s wake. As Evie watched the witcher fly past her, she looked up to see the nekkers coming her way. Somehow through the panic flooding her mind, the word “bomb” popped through. She reached up to the explosive on the bandolier, pulled it from its clip, and tossed it at the nekkers. The bomb hit the ground in front of them, detonating in a bluish-white explosion and freezing them in place just long enough for her to turn and sprint towards the ridge. As she looked up, she saw Geralt running down the slope in her direction, the glowing, orange lightning bolts of Quen shimmering around him.

As the witcher slowly approached the three, just-thawed-out nekkers, he said, “Okay… _now_ …you’re dead.”

The first nekker leapt in the air towards the monster-slayer, reaching out with both claws to draw blood. The witcher smoothly side-stepped to his left, bringing his blade down just below the deltoid of the nekker’s outstretched arm. The nekker howled as his appendage flew through the air. After the witcher’s blade sliced completely through the nekker’s flesh and bone, he allowed the momentum of the sword to twist him into a pirouette while also dropping to one knee. This allowed him to catch the second nekker mid-thigh with his blade. The sword cut through the nekker like a hot knife through butter, and the monster fell to the ground, blood squirting from its two stumps. While still on one knee, the Butcher of Blaviken rolled forward and ran the third nekker straight through the gut, his sword exiting a good twelve inches out of the back of the creature. As the witcher stood, he took his left hand off the sword’s handle and grabbed the nekker by the loose skin of its neck. He then lifted the nekker off its feet while increasing the angle of the blade. Gravity did the rest as the creature slid further down the blade towards the sword’s hilt. There was now two feet of blade protruding from the nekker’s back. 

Suddenly, the witcher heard a noise behind him. Pivoting on his right heal, he lowered and spun the monster’s body towards the noise. The now one-armed nekker couldn’t slow its attack and ran straight into the protruding blade. Later, the witcher would joke that that had been his first ever nekker-kabob. With both creatures now impaled on his sword, he stepped forward with his right leg and twisted his body to the left with all of his might. The two nekkers fell backward and hit the ground with a thud, one on top of the other. The witcher quickly jerked the blade upward and then, with a grunt, brought it back down again, skewering both nekkers’ chest cavities. 

The White Wolf pulled his blade free of the two corpses and began turning his body in a slow circle, his eyes scanning the area around him. He was listening closely, but the meadow was deathly quiet. He walked back over to the nekker nest, crouched down, and waited. After five minutes, he stood and carefully began making his way around the meadow. Another five minutes later, he decided that they’d done the best that they could do, given the time-crunch that they were under. If there were some still-living nekkers down below, then so be it. 

It was then that he looked up the slope and saw Evie standing at the top of the ridge, staring down at him. She had a horse on either side of her, one hand holding each of their bridles. Upon seeing her there, a contemplative look crossed his face. He had told her that, if things turned sour, she should ride away and not look back. But, apparently, that was something she wasn’t willing to do. As he continued to stare at her, the witcher nodded his head slightly, realizing that he had just learned a bit more about the historian’s character. Then, he began limping up the slope towards the three. As both his adrenaline and the witcher potions were beginning to dissipate, his brain was starting to register the pain coming from various parts of his body. He knew that he’d have to examine himself soon.

As Geralt approached Evie at the top of the ridge, she calmly asked, “That…could’ve gone better, right?”

The witcher actually let out a low, quick laugh. 

“No doubt. But any contract you can walk away from…consider it a success.” Then his face turned serious. “Now…where’s my coin?”

As Evie shook her head, a slow smile broke out across her face. 

“Of course, Master Witcher. Right away, Master Witcher.”

oOo

“Evie, I think I’m gonna need some help with my butt.”

“Umm…Okaaay. What exactly do you need?” Evie asked with trepidation.

As Geralt held up a long, curved metal needle, he asked, “Do you know how to sew?”

“Oh, dear.”

oOo

Immediately after “The Battle of Nekker Meadow” – which is what Evie would call it from now on - Geralt began looking for a place to camp for the rest of the evening. He could have continued, but one look at Evie and it was clear that she was about to collapse. To be fair, they had been on the move for twenty-four hours – twenty-four very intense, stressful hours. While searching, they came across a small, mountain stream. It wasn’t much, not even waist deep, but they took advantage of the opportunity. They watered their horses, refilled canteens, and, per the witcher’s suggestion, bathed themselves. 

“Who knows when we’ll next get the chance,” he had said. 

Geralt stood guard, his back to the stream, as Evie stripped bare, grabbed her soap that Geralt had picked up in her cottage, and began washing several days’ worth of sweat, dirt, and grime from her body. She was exhausted, but the frigid mountain water shocked her alert. After she changed into fresh clothes, it was Geralt’s turn. As he walked past her, he caught the strong scent of vanilla. He paused for a moment and inhaled deeply, but he then quickly shook his head and immediately set about cleaning his sword, knife, and armor – all of which were covered in nekker blood, hair, bits of bone, and ogroid oil. Only after his gear had been tended to, did he then begin the cleaning and maintenance of his body. It was, at that point, that he realized he’d probably need to suture up the wounds on his backside and that he’d need help to do so. 

Geralt spread a blanket down on the ground, placed his unsheathed silver sword on the left side, and then stuck a lit torch in the ground on the right side of the blanket about mid-level. As he began to drop his trousers, Evie stopped him.

“Wait. Are you sure you can’t do it yourself? Surely, you’ve done this before.”

“Countless times. But, because of the location of the wound, I can’t see what I’m doing. So, I need your help. Evie, what are you worried about? I’ve seen you naked. This’ll make us even.”

“Right...right. Okay. Are you going to sterilize the needle?”

“What for? I’m immune to disease and infection.”

“Of course, you are.” 

At that point, Geralt turned around, dropped his pants and lay face-down on the blanket. Evie knelt down and straddled his right leg. She gasped at the sight. There were four, deep, bloody gashes in Geralt’s backside, each one about six to eight inches long. This was going to take a while. 

As she tied a knot in the end of the thread, she asked, “What kind of hair is this?”

“Manticore. It’s thin but very resilient. And it stretches just the right amount. It’s the best for stitches.” 

She wondered at just how extensive the witcher’s knowledge was on all things medical. She had no doubt that he could be a guest lecturer at Oxenfurt Academy’s School of Medicine if he ever wanted.

She reached her hand down, but right before grasping his flesh, she stopped short. 

“Geralt, I’m not the best seamstress.”

“Evie, it doesn’t have to be perfect. They’ll heal up on their own eventually, but this’ll just speed up the process, okay?”

She nodded. “Is this going to hurt?” she asked nervously.

“A bit. But nothing I’m not used to. Just remember – don’t just stitch the skin together. You have to get the muscle tissue underneath, too.”

Earlier, Geralt had taken a White Honey potion to neutralize any toxins in his body. He assured Evie that he was safe to touch now. She reached down, grabbed the skin at the top of the gash nearest to her, and then jabbed the needle through both edges of tissue. 

She became less nervous with each pass of the needle through his flesh, especially since Geralt, apparently, wasn’t troubled by it. Whether or not it actually was painful for him, she didn’t know, and that made her wonder at just how high was the witcher’s threshold for pain. If he was ever captured and tortured for information, would he ever break, she pondered. How much pain could the witcher go through before his torturer finally had enough and just killed him? The thought made her shiver. 

Despite his words about the lack of need for perfection, Evie was going very slowly with the suturing because she wanted to do the best job possible. Therefore, before she had even finished with the second wound, the fire of the torch began to diminish. 

“Geralt, I’m having trouble seeing. Can you re-light the torch, please?”

The witcher was resting his head on his crossed arms so he lifted up, reached back with his right arm, made a sign with his hand, and a flame of fire materialized just in front of his palm and, then, shot forward to re-ignite the torch.

“That is so amazing,” Evie said in a whisper. 

She’d obviously seen him perform his Signs several times already, but she was still in awe of his special power.

“Geralt, can I ask a question?”

“Sure,” replied the witcher, resting his head back down on his forearms again.

“Are you magical – like a mage or wizard?”

“Hmm. Not exactly.”

“Then, what’s the difference between what you do and what a sorcerer does?”

“Well, we are all essentially doing the same thing. That is, taking the chaotic power – the energy - found in nature and manipulating it, controlling it for our own purposes. But there are several differences in how we do it. First off, magic users are born with their ability to harness the power. Whereas, we – witchers - only acquire it due to the mutations. Secondly, their ability, typically, requires the use of complicated incantations or spells. I don’t know exactly how or why, but there’s something… _magical_ …in the words they speak that allows them to ensnare tremendous amounts of the Chaos. That makes them much more powerful, magically, than witchers. Also, and this depends upon the spell that they are using, but typically, they have to use both hands to wield their power. And their spells – because of the time needed to speak the intricate incantations - generally take several seconds to perform. Contrast all of that with witcher Signs - which are done immediately, without incantations, and with one hand.” 

“Interesting. So, since you can wield the power, if you wanted, could you become a mage?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t know. Possibly, but it’d take years – even decades – of training. It’s true that mages are born with the power to wield magic, but they also have to go through extensive schooling in order to use it effectively. It takes a long time.”

“And you’ve never been interested in trying it?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“That kind of magic isn’t conducive to witcher’s work.”

“How so?”

“The _sword_ is the witcher’s primary weapon of choice. Period. Everything else that we use is supplemental. So, having to use spells which require both hands does me no good…because that would mean that my sword would have to be sheathed. Plus, because the sword is our weapon of choice, witchers fight up close and personal. Therefore, we need spells – Signs – that work instantaneously. Signs that took three to four seconds to cast would be worthless. The beast would be on me tearing my throat out before I even got half way through with the incantation.”

Evie was soaking in every word. The historian in her was really wishing that she had a quill and parchment in hand instead of a needle and flesh.

As she continued to stitch up the witcher’s backside, she continued with her questions.

“I have another question about magic that has bothered me for a long time. Maybe you can answer it?”

“I’ll try.”

“Well, I’ve read numerous historical accounts of battles in which magic users were present. The Battle of Sodden Hill is just one example.” 

“Uh-huh. What’s your question?”

“I’ve read of just how powerful these magic users are. One sorceress could call down huge balls of fire from the sky – wiping out entire platoons of men.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen that myself.”

“Then, if that’s the case, why don’t these magic users control the world? They are more powerful than anyone. Who could ever stand against them? How is it that a magic user could ever be killed or captured by a non-magic user? It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Exactly.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Magic doesn’t make sense. It’s not logical. It’s not predictable…because it comes from Chaos. It’s not part of this world or part of humans, naturally.”

“Okay…but how does that explain why mages don’t rule over us all?”

“Alright. Here’s a logical explanation. The ability to use magic is a talent or skill, just like any other. Everyone has the ability to pick up a brush and dab some paint on a canvas, but not everyone has the skill of van Rogh, right? Well, the magic users that you’re talking about – the ones that can vaporize dozens of soldiers with a single spell – are equally as rare. They are the elite of the elite. Most magic users actually have less power than me. They can do simple things like cure a sick cow or a case of the runs - which isn’t insignificant, especially if you have the runs. But the elite magic users? They’re ones that, one, were born with an incredibly high-level of talent and, two, went through extensive training to maximize that talent to its fullest. We’re talking about…maybe twenty or thirty in the entire world that are at the level that you’re thinking of.”

“Okay. But couldn’t those thirty be powerful enough to rule the world?”

“They could, but I’ve discovered, in my experience, that, thankfully, they’re a bunch of vipers.”

“Thankfully? Why are you thankful for that?”

“There are a few exceptions, but almost all are untrustworthy, power-hungry back-stabbers. You put three magic users in a room and within a minute, two of them will be scheming on how to get rid of the third. They can’t keep their alliances together, which is a good thing. If they ever united…we’d be in trouble.” 

“Okay. Maybe that explains why they, collectively, don’t rule, but what about individually? I’ve seen witches burned in Novigrad. How is that they are ever even captured? Can’t they cast portals that will allow them to escape? Can’t they cast spells that change their appearance? It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, again, the witches that you were seeing burn, probably weren’t the elite ones that we’re talking about. They were probably more like herbalists or alchemists. That said, even the elite ones aren’t omniscient or omnipotent. They can be caught unaware. Detonate a dimeritium bomb in their vicinity, and then, they’re no more dangerous than anyone else. In fact, they’re probably less dangerous. Mages are so dependent upon their magic, they don’t ever even bother with learning things like physical training, hand-to-hand combat, or how to use a weapon.” 

“Could a mage ever be beaten if they weren’t caught by surprise?”

“Definitely. They can be overwhelmed, but it’d take numbers. But…”

After a long pause, the witcher continued, but his voice was different – more ominous. 

“There’s something else about magic that I haven’t explained. Using magic exacts a toll. And it’s a high price. Witchers can only do it because our bodies have been mutated, which was not only the most painful hell I’ve ever been through but also left me sterile. And all those elite magic users we’ve been talking about, they’ve paid a price, too. They’re all sterile, as well. This power, this energy doesn’t want to be controlled. It’s wild and chaotic, unnatural. It’s deadly. It’s, like, the opposite of…life. Or, at least, the opposite of the way that life should be. So, I guess it makes sense that we’ve had to give up our ability to procreate in order to use it. It’s as if there’s some unspoken pact – that to have the ability to use this power means we have to forsake the ability to pass it on.

“I’ve known many of these elite magic users, and a couple of them have told me the same thing – that, at times, when they’re casting their spells, they can feel the power pushing back at them. As if it’s fighting back. It’s why, they claim, that they can’t cast their spells perfectly every time. This is just pure speculation on my part, but I get the sense that there’s something - and I don’t know what - holding this chaotic energy in check, and if this power was ever completely unleashed, it’d kill us all. That’s why I said it’s unpredictable. It’s why I don’t like portals. I just don’t trust the Chaos.”

Evie was completely still and quiet.

Geralt shook his head. 

“Sorry, I got a little off topic. Anyway, yeah, a mage could be defeated. As I said, using it takes a toll. A sorcerer can’t just cast powerful spells continuously, one after the other, non-stop. They’d burn themselves out. I’ve even seen them pass out from exhaustion. Think of it like a muscle. If I told you to sprint as fast as possible, you couldn’t do it forever. You’d have to rest pretty quickly. That’s how some of these mages can be captured. Their powerful spells might kill the first and second wave of attackers, but by the time the third or fourth wave comes, they got nothing left.”

Evie was nodding her head at his explanation. 

“Thanks, Geralt. That was really interesting. And it explains a lot.” She then patted his left cheek. “Okay. We’re all done.” 

“Yeah? So, how does it look?” 

“Funny, Witcher. You’re not going to get me to answer that.” 

“Well, at least tell me that you didn’t sew my butt-cheeks together.”

oOo

After being stitched up, Geralt downed another healing potion and, then, continued in his search for shelter that would be suitable for them to bed down for the evening. After another half hour, he finally found an adequate spot. A cliff towered over them at least a hundred feet high on one side of their path. Right at the point where the terrain turned from gently sloping to completely vertical was a small cave. In actual fact, it was really less of a cave and more of an alcove. The indention into the cliff’s face was perhaps only fifteen feet deep by ten feet wide. But it was deep enough that it would give them protection for the night. 

Geralt gave Evie some food rations from his saddlebags, and while she was eating, he went about tending to and feeding the horses. He then hobbled them so that they wouldn’t roam into danger during the night. Finally, he set a half-dozen trip-wired traps further out on a half-circular perimeter as both protection and as a warning system. When he returned to the alcove, he discovered Evie fast asleep near the back of the cave on a pallet of blankets, covered by his thick, winter cloak. She was using one of his extra shirts as a pillow. The witcher knelt down several feet away from her – as close to the entrance as possible - and began organizing the components that he’d need in order to replenish the decoctions, potions, and bombs that he’d used a few hours earlier in the attack on the nekker’s nest. Before getting to that, though, he discreetly slipped off his trousers, took out his needle and thread, and began mending the shredded leather. He knew that if he didn’t, then the tears would just continue to get bigger and bigger. If he’d learned anything from Vesemir, it was the necessity to take care of his equipment – so that it, in return, could take care of him. 

oOo

_Vizima_

Emhyr’s grasp on his empire was slipping. His troops had stalled just south of the Pontar River, stuck in the quagmire that was Velen. He was learning that the region was called “No Man’s Land” for a legitimate reason. Despite the assistance of several powerful sorceresses, he had experienced multiple military defeats by King Radovid’s Redanian forces. The cliché, “Necessity is the mother of all invention,” is a cliché for a reason, and it certainly applied in this case for the Redanians. Due to Radovid’s hatred of all things magical and his systematic persecution of everyone in his kingdom who even had a whiff of the arcane about them, virtually every mage and sorceress had fled his realm for other lands. Therefore, Radovid possessed no mages to combat those of the south. Thus, the Redanian king had enlisted the minds of the best scientists and engineers from Oxenfurt Academy to devise methods to neutralize the devastating effects of sorceress’s offensive spells. Deep, covered trenches kept the infantry men protected during any magical, aerial bombardments. The Nordlings had also developed long range ballistae – far outside the reach of the mages’ spells – to rain down enormous amounts of dimeritium explosives on the Nilfgaardian side of the battlefield. Using advanced telescopic devices, the Redanians could even pinpoint the exact location of the enemy sorceress. This meant that the mage – before being crushed and burned with artillery fire - would have to immediately teleport away from the battlefield, which, in essence, removed their advantage. Because their magical, fiery portals were so easy to spot, if the mage did teleport back into battle, the Redanian siege units would notice and quickly attack. They would immediately, then, follow up the dimeritium attack with traditional bombs, in the hope of actually killing the sorceress. This, in fact, is how Assire var Anahid had died. 

In addition to all this was the simple matter that the Redanians had the advantage of being on the defensive. A basic military fact is that it is simply much more difficult and dangerous to dig out an entrenched enemy than it is to defend from attacking forces. It also didn’t help that, because the Nilfgaardians were so far away from home and also in recently conquered, but still hostile lands, they were having difficulty maintaining their supply lines. No matter how impressive an army, it still needs two things for victory – food and weapons. There was still much resistance to be found in the conquered lands of Temeria and Aedirn, and these freedom fighters knew that attacking the supply lines was a much more effective way of damaging the Black Ones than actually attacking the armed units on the front. And, of course, this forced the Nilfgaardians to take many of their armed units from the field of battle and use them as escorts for the supply corps, which in turn hurt their ability to defeat the Redanian troops. 

Despite all of these obvious advantages for the defending Redanians forces, with every defeat, the whispers questioning Emhyr’s ability to lead the Empire became more frequent and more pronounced. No one cared what Emhyr had already achieved. No one cared that, in less than a year, he had conquered Temeria, Aedirn and all of the lands between the Yaruga and the Pontar Rivers. Nobody cared that, in doing so, he had increased the size of the Empire by at least twenty percent, which was an incredible feat. And the reason nobody cared, Emhyr knew, was because of one thing – expectations. Why was it that two people could have virtually the same experience – eating the same meal at a tavern, listening to the same trobairitz sing, sleeping with same strumpet – and one could leave joyful while the other disappointed? Simply put – their expectations going in. Expectations could stir up excitement and build anticipation. In fact, Emhyr had used this phenomenon to help build support for his invasion of the north. On the other hand, when expectations weren’t met, it typically brought out the worst in people. Their spirit of entitlement surfaced. The populace refused to focus on what they had and be grateful for that; instead, they focused on what they didn’t have and became resentful and bitter because they believed that it – whatever it was that they wanted - was their due. Knowing all of this, the Emperor was aware that expectations, like highly volatile explosives, had to be handled with care. He knew that he only had himself to blame for, unfortunately, at the beginning of this Third Northern War, he and his military strategists had made it clear to those that mattered that the aim was to conquer all of the Northern kingdoms. Thus, that was the expectation, and anything less would be deemed a failure.

It seemed these days that Emhyr was facing as much opposition from internal enemies as from the armies of the north. What complicated matters even more was that the internal dissension came from two groups. One group was the commercial guilds, for these economic giants were – through both taxation and the supplying of goods - shouldering most of the load for financing and equipping the military. These leaders of industry were happy to support Emhyr and his expansion as long as his soldiers were conquering new lands, which meant acquiring new resources and new avenues of trade. But military defeats were something they wouldn’t tolerate. Not because they were particularly patriotic, but because it affected something much more important – their bank accounts.   
  
The second group was composed of certain ambitious members of the Nilfgaardian noble class. These were men and women who believed themselves superior to the common man not due to great deeds but simply due to their lineage. They resented that Emhyr had never married one of their daughters and brought their bloodlines to the pinnacle of power and prestige that they believed they so rightly deserved. At the first sign of weakness, they would be ready to usurp the throne and place one of their own in power. Emhyr knew that dealing with the nobles was a necessary evil, and he was as wary of their smiles and flattery as he would be the purrs of a ferocious lion. A lion that would flop on its side and expose its belly to draw you near and entice you into pets of affection, only to tear you to shreds with exposed claws and fangs moments later. 

As much as the Emperor worried about his future from both internal and external foes, he was also just as perplexed. He clearly understood why King Radovid fought – to retain his power - but he couldn’t fathom why the people of Redania would choose to side with a tyrant like Radovid against the Empire. The man hated anything and anyone non-human, including mages. Emhyr didn’t understand why every sorceress, elf, dwarf, halfling, doppler, and the like simply didn’t take up arms and revolt. He knew that even many of the human Redanians were not pleased with the direction “The Stern” had taken their country. So why wage war against the Empire, especially since he – the Emperor - had clearly shown what type of prosperity could be had under his magnanimous rule? The Nilfgaardians were undoubtedly the most enlightened nation on the Continent. They were the leaders of the arts and sciences, of architect and engineering, of military and commerce. There was a reason that the numerous provinces and duchies that lived under the Empire’s banner never revolted. He may have been ruthless to the opposing countries during battle, but he firmly believed in instilling peace, prosperity, and a strong infrastructure afterwards. The fact that the people of Redania were too ignorant to see or understand this truth just gave credence to his belief that they needed him as a ruler in order to do what was in their best interest. He needed to save them from themselves. But the Emperor knew that he was running out of time. He needed a decisive and visible military victory to quiet the whispers of dissension and reestablish the balance of power. 

It was at this moment that Emhyr heard a knock on the side door of his chambers – a door that only one other man ever used. After closing and locking the main entryway to his chambers, the Emperor opened the door to one of the few men that he actually trusted. 

“Malek, what news do you bring?” 

The man, simply known as Malek, was an imposing presence, standing a head taller than the Emperor and with shoulders so broad he barely fit through the doorway. But it was more than his size that instilled reverence and fear in those around him. He had the chiseled features of the heroes of epic ballads, with long, flowing ebony hair that just touched the top of his equally black, leather armor. His square jaw was covered with a neatly trimmed beard, which – like the hair on his head – was showing more signs of gray with each passing year. But that feature only served to enhance his distinguished bearing. His long, thin nose was slightly crooked – the result of blow in battle. But the imperfection not only didn’t mar his visage, it in fact gave him a more dangerous air. Set between prominent cheekbones and thick brows were piercing, light blue eyes – the color of a frozen pond. In total, he exuded power, which inspired loyalty in his troops and lustful thoughts in even the most chaste of women. 

No one knew of Malek’s true rank or position in the Nilfgaardian military anymore, but he only took orders from the Emperor himself. He and his handpicked squad of men had become Emhyr’s most trusted and reliable tool. Whatever sensitive, delicate, and covert missions the Emperor needed done – security details, espionage, assassination attempts - he knew that he could count on Malek. It had been Malek, for instance, who had first investigated, contacted and convinced Letho of Gulet and his two School of Viper associates to take part in the intricate plot to eliminate the Northern kingdom’s monarchs several years back. Simply put, the man solved problems.

“We have a lead, your Majesty,” Malek stated as he showed Emhyr the “Missing” placard adorned with Evie’s face.

The Emperor felt a surge of hope within. Perhaps this could turn the tide of the war. 

“Do everything in your power to find her. Nothing else is more important.” 

“Understood, your Majesty.”

  
  
oOo

Evie slowly opened her eyes, and for a brief moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. The sun hadn’t quite risen yet, but there was enough ambient light entering the alcove that she was able to see the witcher, on his knees a few feet from her. His back was to her, and he was situated between her and the entrance of the alcove, almost like a sentry guarding a treasure. She quietly got up and tiptoed around to the front of him so that she could see his face. Then, she slowly and carefully sat down in front of him. His eyes were closed, and Evie couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or if he was simply doing his witcher-meditation. She honestly didn’t know if it was even possible for witchers to sleep in a kneeling position. She studied him intently. His long, white hair, pulled back in a ponytail, looked a little oily. But that made sense. Hers was oily, too, since it had been several days since she’d last washed it. She took in his face – weathered, wrinkled and scarred. Her eyes followed the vertical scar that ran from above his left brow down past his cheekbone. She resisted the urge to reach out and gently trace it with her fingertips. She knew that, after last night, he’d have four more scars to add to his collection. She wondered at just how much pain the witcher had felt in his life. She wondered at how much of it found him simply through fate and how much he actually sought out on his own. 

She doubted that there was a man alive who had experienced as much death and violence as the one kneeling before her. If the legends of witchers were accurate, then she knew that from the time that he was a small child, he had been trained – and his body mutated – to do just one thing – to kill. But not for a particularly noble purpose. He wasn’t a soldier trained to kill out of duty to one’s country. Nor was he a knight-errant trained to keep law and order or to defend the oppressed. In fact, he had made it clear to her just yesterday. He had been raised as a simple mercenary - to kill for money. 

She wondered about his childhood. Did he ever know his parents? Did he grow up with any brothers and sisters? Did he ever have any friends with whom he could just laugh and play? Had he ever been held and hugged and loved? She strongly doubted it. She pictured a small, frightened, six-year old Geralt being harassed and driven by some grizzled witcher taskmaster, and she suddenly felt like crying. She wanted to reach out and hold him. With that type of loveless childhood, it was no wonder witchers acted the way they did and had the reputation that they had. How could an adult show kindness, compassion and empathy to others if they’d never received and learned of love as a child? 

So, why was the man kneeling in front of her different? Despite his claim that he didn’t take action if coin wasn’t involved, she knew that wasn’t, in fact, true. For some reason, he had chosen to spare Tayron - armed with an axe - in the Tarsus bar a week ago. For some reason, he had chosen to intervene and save her from being brutally raped and probably murdered. For some reason, he had then spent a week showing her compassion by tending to her injuries. And he had received not a single coin for any of those acts of kindness. But, on the other hand, she could still remember the horrible screams of her attacker after the witcher had set him on fire. There was both a brutality and a tenderness to Geralt that she was having a hard time reconciling. 

“So how long are you going to sit there staring at me?” 

Evie was suddenly startled from her thoughts by the witcher’s voice. 

She looked and saw that Geralt’s eyes were still closed. “I thought I was being incredibly quiet,” she said.

The witcher opened his eyes.

“I heard you when you woke up. Your breathing changed and your heart rate increased.”

Evie shook her head in bewilderment. “Your senses are incredible. Do you ever sleep?”

“Not anymore. I can sleep, but I don’t remember the last time that I actually did. And the truth is that I don’t need to. An hour or two of meditation, and I feel fully rested.” 

What Geralt wasn’t telling Evie was the reason why he chose to never sleep anymore. He was afraid that he’d still be plagued by nightmares of Ciri’s death - nightmares that had tormented him in those drunken months the past summer. He could still remember them vividly. Finding her face down on a desolate, grey, rocky plain. Her frozen body as cold and hard as stone. Turning her over, to see maggots and worms eating her flesh, crawling from her eyes. And hearing her voice, ‘Why didn’t you save me, Geralt? I was counting on you.’ He would then see long, thick, black serpents rise up from the ground beside her. He’d reach back for his sword, but when he’d draw it from its scabbard, it would turn to ash. As the snakes wrapped themselves around Ciri’s body, he’d try to pry them away to no avail. And then the earth would open up and draw her downward. All the while, she would be crying out to him for help, while he stood there unable to save her. It was those nightmares that had, originally, led Geralt to his heavy drinking. He didn’t know if the nightmares would still be present if he slept, and as of yet, he was still unwilling to find out. 

“So, when you meditate, you’re still completely aware of your surroundings?” Evie asked.

“Yeah. It’s a little hard to explain. Both my body and mind slow down and go into a restful state, but I can still sense everything going on around me.”

“What about food? I haven’t seen you eat hardly anything?”

Geralt smirked. “Is this research, Professor? Interviewing me so that you can write a book?”

Evie blushed a bit. “I’m sorry. I guess my professional side is showing. I’m just…curious about you.”

“It’s okay.” Geralt smiled, hoping to reassure her that he wasn’t irritated by her questions. “I do have to eat. My body does need energy, but nothing like you humans need. I can go five or six days between meals and still be fine.”

“That’s amazing. Do you know exactly why that is?”

The witcher shrugged. “I’d guess that it’s simply due to the mutations in my body. You know, I’ve never done an autopsy on a witcher’s body before so I don’t even know what our organs look like. But I assume that the mutagens simply transformed our bodies into highly efficient - I don’t know the right word – organisms or machines. Compared to humans, we’re faster, stronger, and more agile. As you know, our senses are highly advanced. We don’t have to sleep, we don’t have to eat or drink much, we’re immune to diseases, we recover from injuries quite easily, we don’t have to relieve ourselves, we don’t-”

“Wait, what? You don’t have to relieve yourself? You’re kidding.”

Geralt shook his head. “Nope. Not kidding. I haven’t had to relieve myself in over ninety years. I guess my organs are so efficient that they simply use every bit of the food and liquids I consume. So, there’s nothing left to…excrete.”

Evie nodded her head. “It makes sense. I just never would have thought about that.”

“Is there anything else you want to know about witchers?”

She looked into his eyes. “About witchers, no. About you, yes.”

Geralt didn’t say a word. He just stared at Evie’s face. He couldn’t detect a trace of deceit or duplicity in her eyes. Just sincerity and tenderness. He didn’t know why, but he suddenly became very aware of his body. He felt a rush of adrenaline, his heart rate increase, and his skin get warm. And he felt a desire to know more about this woman in front of him. To know her secrets, her fears, the feel of her lips.

“What do you want to know?” he asked in an almost whisper.

“Who is Ciri?” she asked softly.

He looked to the ground and swallowed. He knew how relationships worked. He realized that if he wanted to know her secrets, then he’d have to share some of his own. And, strangely enough, there was a part of him that wanted her to know. Maybe if she knew, the nightmares would go away. “‘A burden shared is a burden halved’ and all that crap,” he thought to himself. He nodded his head slightly and then peered back into her eyes. 

“She was my daughter.” 

For the next hour, Geralt proceeded to tell Evie of his and Ciri’s life together. He told her that Ciri was his Surprise Child, of how their lives had circled each other’s for years until he had finally taken her in and trained her to be a witcher. He told her of Ciri’s connection to Lara Dorren, the Elder blood, and the power she possessed. He spoke of the Wild Hunt, and he concluded with how Ciri had given her life in saving the world from the White Frost. When he had finished, there was a natural moment of silence, and the witcher’s head was bowed low. 

Evie reached out and touched Geralt’s cheek. 

“Geralt, your daughter’s a hero. She saved millions of lives. She’s given this whole world a gift - a future free from the White Frost. We’ve inherited a future that can be full of hope and optimism, all because of her.” 

The witcher raised his head and looked at Evie. 

“That’s the problem with an inheritance. Someone has to die for you to get it. And it’s usually someone you love.” He stood, walked to the entrance of the alcove, and stared out. “You know, I would almost be okay with her sacrifice if I thought this world was worth saving. At least then, I could rationalize that her death was worth it, that it actually meant something. But she gave up her life for a world full of…evil and hate and injustice. A world whose motto is, ‘Do unto others before they do unto you.’ I would rather that she had…” He paused, sighed, and closed his eyes. “I still miss her.” 

Evie rose to her feet and walked up behind the grieving man. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her chest and cheek to his back. 

“I’m sorry, Geralt. I’m so sorry.”

After a few moments of silence, the witcher said in a low voice, “I wish I could cry. I can remember crying as a little boy, before I took the mutagens…but I can’t cry anymore. Maybe it’s my memory playing tricks on me, but I could swear that I always felt a little better afterwards.”

“I’ll cry for you then.” 

As she hugged him tighter, the witcher’s hand moved upward – as if by instinct. He grasped hers and held it tightly to his chest. They stood there for a while - the witcher staring out at nothing as the sun peeked over the horizon. 


	7. Chapter 7

Book 1: The Wolf Awakens  
Chapter 7

The summer sun was bright and baking the land. It was midday, and Geralt and Evie had been traveling, both on horseback and on foot, for six or seven hours. There had been very little conversation between the two, but not because Evie had nothing to say. There were so many things that she wanted to ask and discuss with Geralt. However, he had made it clear that talking would be a distraction and that he needed all of his senses tuned into the highly dangerous surroundings. If “The Battle of Nekker Meadow” the previous day didn’t convince her of that reality, then what happened next certainly did. 

As the two were riding along, with the witcher in the lead, Geralt suddenly stopped and held up his hand in a closed fist – their previously agreed to signal to “freeze.” He immediately used Axii on both horses to keep them calm and quiet. Quickly dismounting Roach, he grabbed Evie’s reins and led them underneath the thick canopy of a nearby tree. After almost thirty seconds of silence, Evie heard a distant “whooshing” sound, and moments later, a shadow crossed the terrain in front of them. She peered through the limbs of the tree and caught sight of an incredibly large, flying creature. She immediately thought that she was seeing a dragon. It looked like it was at least thirty feet across, from wing tip to wing tip. Her heart began to race and her muscles tensed as she waited to see what would happen next. As the beast continued flying westward away from the two travelers, Evie exhaled deeply. She hadn’t even realized that she had been holding her breath. 

“Just a basilisk. Let’s go,” the witcher stated calmly, as if he had seen nothing more than a stray puppy cross his path. He turned to look at Evie and saw tears welling up in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Suddenly, the stress of the previous twenty-four hours came crashing down on the scholar.

“What the hell am I doing out here?” Her voice had a trace of panic in it. “I’ve spent most of my life in classrooms and libraries and museums. I’m not some battle-hardened warrior. I wouldn’t last an hour out here on my own. And I’m probably going to get you killed. At some point, we are going to be attacked again, and you’ll be distracted, having to worry about protecting me. And that doesn’t even take into account that we probably already have a battalion of Niflgaardian soldiers now hunting us down. If the monsters don’t get us, then they will.” 

The witcher looked at her, scratched his chin, and slightly nodded his head. 

“That sounds about right.” 

She shook her head and laughed, but there was no mirth in it. 

“So, you’re not even going to attempt to humor me and tell me I’m wrong, tell me that we’ll be fine?” 

He shook his head. 

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

A look of confusion filled her face.   
  
“Then, why…why are you doing this? You’re risking your life for me and we’ve known each other hardly a week. Why are you helping me?”

Geralt looked at Evie for a long time. The witcher knew he could give her a trite answer and simply be done with it. Then, they could be on their way. But he doubted she would believe a trite answer. She was too smart for that, and they had already shared so many intimate details with each other that it didn’t make any sense to do so anyway. He debated whether to tell her, “Because you’re my chance to make a difference. You’re my starfish. You need help against the dark tides and storms of this world, and there’s simply no one else here.” He even considered saying, “Because you’re my ‘do-over.’ I didn’t save Ciri so I’m gonna do my damnedest to save you.” But he didn’t give her either of those answers. While both of those statements were true, they didn’t come anywhere close to conveying the full story behind his motivations. 

He finally asked, “Do you believe God exists?” 

His question was so unexpected that she simply asked, “What?”

“Do you believe that there is an actual God? Not wooden idols or statues that people worship, but a true, legitimate God? Some higher power that created all of this?” 

“I…what’s that got to do with why you’re helping me?”

The witcher exhaled slowly and then said, “Let’s have a seat. This may take a while.” 

After they were both sitting in the shade of the tree, the witcher reached into his front pocket for his pipe. Upon finding it missing, he remembered that he’d last used it as a weapon in the Tarsus bar. 

“Damn. This was definitely going to be a pipe-smoking conversation,” he said with a wistful smile. 

Evie simply sat there with her hands in her lap and returned his smile. She had already come to understand the witcher a bit – that he, occasionally, needed time to order his thoughts, and she just needed to give him a moment of uninterrupted silence.

Sure enough, seconds later, he looked into Evie’s eyes, took a deep breath, and began. 

“There was a point in my life, when I was younger, when I thought that there had to be a god. I can’t really remember how old I was – probably in my late teens or early twenties. But I can remember being on the Path, lying out under the stars each night and contemplating the universe – wondering just have far away the constellations were. At some point, I realized that the universe has to go on forever. There can’t be an end to it, a wall surrounding it, because if there is, the next logical question is, ‘Then, what’s on the other side of that wall?’ And that idea…the idea of infinity – of having no limits, no beginning or end - just made me believe that there has to be a god, something greater than me. Because, I’ll be honest, I just can’t wrap my mind around the concepts of infinity…or eternity. It’s the same concept if I ask you the question, ‘Where did you come from? Who created you?’” 

“My parents.”

“Right. And who created them?”

“Their parents.”

“Right. But that process can’t go backwards into the past forever. Logically, there had to be a first person, or rather a first couple, who started it all. But, then, the question becomes, ‘Well, then who created that first couple?’ Right? They had to come from somewhere. And the only answer that I could come up with is God. Some kind of higher power – outside of our time-space continuum - that wasn’t created, that has just always existed, for eternity.”

“You know, some people theorize that there isn’t a creator, that the universe just came to be by accident - in a spontaneous explosion of gas and particles.”

At that, Geralt pulled his silver sword from its scabbard and held it out in front of him. A few rays from the sun found their way through the tree’s canopy and sparkled off the blade.

“Look at this sword. Look at the level of detail, the intricacy. Could anyone honestly believe that this sword just came to be by accident, that all of its parts just randomly formed together? Nobody in their right mind would believe that. Obviously, someone had to design it and create it. And this sword can’t even remotely compare to the intricate details found in our bodies or found in nature.”

“Hey, I didn’t say I believed it. I’m just playing devil’s advocate,” Evie stated with a smile. 

“Fair enough, but even if that theory is true, then my question is, ‘Where did the gas and particles come from?’ Someone or something had to create those. A ‘someone’ or ‘something’ that has always existed. I will just never believe that something can naturally be created out of nothing. There’s nothing in this world that makes me believe that is possible. Even magic can’t do that. Even sorcerers, when they conjure something, are simply taking energy already found in nature and transforming it into something else. Only the supernatural can create something out of nothing.”

Evie just nodded her head. She was enjoying listening to him, wanting to understand him better. And if she was truthful, she was slightly amazed at how deep and insightful his thoughts were. He was, once again, destroying the world’s preconceived notions on how a witcher thought and acted. At that point, she decided that she just needed to take her copy of Monstrum and toss it into the rubbish bin. 

“That makes sense,” she said, nodding her head again, encouraging him to continue. “It’d be hard to refute your points so far. Though…I’m still not sure where you’re going with this.”

“I’ll get there. I promise,” he answered. “So, once I determined that there has to be some kind of supernatural entity, I then set out trying to figure more about it. And most people – religions - consider this supernatural entity to be a god. And, let me tell you, I looked into all of them – Melitele, Kreve, the Nilfgaardian Sun, Freya, the Eternal Fire, the prophet Lebioda – just to name a few. But the more I investigated, the more frustrated I became. I found all of them to be lacking. None of those religions could answer my questions. Questions of how we came to be, who we are, why we’re here, why this world is so broken, or what happens after death. 

“Eventually, my frustrations led me to cynicism. I concluded that whatever this higher power is, it’s just a completely ‘hands off,’ impersonal, uncaring force. I started viewing religions as a joke and religious people as fools. Later in life, I was in a long-term relationship, and she and I used to mock people who prayed, ridiculed people who believed that there was some personal god who actually cared for them, who would deign to help them. We saw them as self-deluded and weak – too weak-willed and too weak-minded to get through life on their own. 

“But my problem with religion wasn’t just the fact that none of them were capable of answering my questions in a satisfactory way. There was another reason that no religion ever resonated with me.”

“Which was?” Evie asked.

“They don’t bring to me what all religious people claim their religion brings – specifically, peace and freedom. Peace of mind and freedom from fear, freedom from guilt. When you boil all religions down to their essence, they are all the same. They all require me to follow an arbitrary list of do’s and don’ts if I want to reach nirvana or heaven or the next realm or whatever they call being ‘accepted’ or judged ‘worthy’ by their god. My ‘virtue’ or ‘righteousness’ or ability to move on to the next plane all comes down to whether I can do more good deeds in life than bad deeds.”

“Okay, but what’s wrong with that?” asked Evie. “I would think that a system of judgment like that would be something you’d agree with. I know that we’ve only known each other a short while, but through our conversations, it seems like the idea of ‘justice’ is something you hold dear. So, what’s wrong with the idea of good deeds leading to good consequences and bad deeds leading to bad consequences? Isn’t that, essentially, what justice is?” 

The witcher nodded. “Absolutely. I strongly believe in justice, and my definition of justice is that we get what we deserve. If I perform a ‘righteous’ act, I deserve a reward, and if I perform an evil act, then I deserve punishment. And that’s why I have a problem with every religion that I’ve ever come across.” 

“Geralt, I’ll be honest, it seems like your contradicting yourself.”

He shook his head. “It’s simple. There’s no justice in a religion that uses an imaginary set of scales as a method for determining one’s eternal fate. On the surface, it looks like such a system is fair and just, but in reality, it’s not. I’ll give you an example. As a hypothetical, let’s say that a week before I saved your life, I killed a man out of greed – simply to take his money. And this man had both a wife and a child. Then, a week later I save your life from those four bandits in the bar. So, in a span of a week, I’ve taken a life and I’ve saved a life. Do those two acts balance themselves out on that set of scales? Did my one good deed wipe away my one bad deed? Religions would say so. Religion states that if I do something ‘bad,’ then I have to do something ‘good’ to ‘pay it off’. To balance it out, to wipe the slate clean. And that ‘payment’ will be different based on the specific religion. In some religions, the payment might be prayer, for some it might be that I have to give alms, for others, it might be that I have to punish myself physically, or a vow of silence, whatever. But regardless of the religion and regardless of the ‘payment,’ it still boils down to my ‘good’ deeds have to outweigh my ‘bad’ deeds. But I don’t believe that’s justice. I can guarantee you that the wife and the child of the man that I hypothetically murdered certainly wouldn’t think that is justice. How is it just or fair that I’ve murdered their husband and father and will face no eternal consequences simply because I saved your life a week later? That’s not justice. That’s not me getting what I deserve.”

“Okay, I see what you’re saying. But, for the sake of argument, let’s say, then, that not all acts are equal. Not all ‘good’ or ‘bad’ acts hold the same amount of worth or ‘weight’ on the scales.” 

“Alright. Let’s think about that logically. So, the premise is that not all acts hold the same weight. So, if I do one really heinous act, then I have to do five or ten good acts as payment for that – to balance it out on the scales. And one really virtuous act – like saving a life – will wipe away five or ten minor bad deeds. I have several issues with that type of religion. 

“First, as I said before, it’s completely arbitrary. None of us know what the equations are. There is no ‘chart’ from God stating that one lie is equal to five random acts of kindness. Or, that to balance out a theft I have to give ten times that amount back to a charity. Hell, are all thefts even the same? If I steal from someone simply because I’m greedy is that the same as if I steal from them because my wife and children are starving and we have no food so I stole some bread so that they could live? Or what if the person I stole from is a rich, racist miser who is despicable and treats everyone like dirt? Does that make the theft ‘lighter’ on the imaginary scale compared to a theft from a kind, poor farmer who, himself, had barely enough money to feed his family? No one and no religion can answer those questions. 

“Also, I can’t speak for anyone else, but I sought out God because I was looking for answers. I was looking for peace of mind. I was looking for a peace in my soul. These religions that I’ve looked into don’t and wouldn’t give me any of that because they would simply turn me into nothing but a moralistic bookkeeper.”

“Wait. What do you mean?

“With religion, at the end of each day, I’d have to tally up all of my ‘bad’ thoughts, words, and deeds and put those in the negative column. And then I’d have to add up all my virtuous deeds and put those in the plus column. And then I have to hope my good deeds balanced out the bad. And if not, then I have to pay it off somehow, and I’d better pay it off before I go to sleep. Because, otherwise, if I die before I can get it balanced, then I’m doomed for eternity. And then the next day, guess what? I get to do it all over again. And I get to do that every day for the rest of my life. You know what - to hell with that. I have no interest in that type of religion. There’s no peace in that. That would be nothing but exhausting. And there’s no freedom in that. It would just enslave me to constant worry – constant worry about where I stood with God in that specific moment.”

Evie nodded her head. “I see your point.” After a moment, she continued. “Are those your only complaints with religion, or do you have more?” she asked with a smile.

Geralt didn’t say anything. He just stared into Evie’s eyes for a moment and then looked away. He then met her eyes again and took a deep breath. 

“Yeah…I do. My real issue is that no religion that I’ve ever come across can truly deal with what I am.”

“What do you mean – ‘what’ you are?”

“Evie, I’m nearly a hundred years old, and I’ve done so much evil in my past that there is no amount of virtuous deeds that I could ever do that would wipe it all away. I could give up my swords today and live another hundred years as some kind of religious hermit, but it still wouldn’t balance out all the bad that I’ve done. And that doesn’t even take into account the bad that I’d continue to do in the future. I’ve tried to live ‘good.’ I can’t do it. I still lose my temper. I still catch myself telling a lie here and there. At times, I still ignore people who are in need. It’s impossible for me to be good all of the time, no matter how much I try. I can’t even live up to my own expectations and standards. I certainly can’t live up to a holy God’s.”

“Geralt, none of us can…but you are good. I see it in you. You spared Tayron. You saved me in the bar. You nursed me back to life. You chose not to kill those soldiers in my cabin. You’re helping me now. Those are all acts of selflessness and kindness. Of goodness.”

He shook his head. “Evie, it doesn’t truly matter how I act. It doesn’t change who I am on the inside.” At this, the witcher stood up and walked a few paces away. “When people call me a mutant and a monster, they’re right. I am.”

“Geralt –” 

“No. Please…listen. I…I need to say this. There’s a darkness inside of me, Evie. It’s so black and twisted that, I swear, sometimes, I think I can actually hear its voice. It is constantly telling me to kill, to destroy. I can remember being an incredibly angry little boy, with a vicious temper. But I had to learn how to control it. If I lost my temper with any of my witcher instructors...you can’t imagine how harshly I was disciplined. So, I learned that I just had to keep it inside. Either that, or use it as fuel for my training. Then, after I was first given mutagens when I was ten, it just got worse. My anger turned to rage. But I still couldn’t and didn’t show it externally. But, inside, it consumed me. Then, after I passed the Trial of Grasses and they saw how well my body handled their normal round of mutagens, they decided to give me more. They gave me experimental mutagens that, as far as I know, no other witcher has ever taken. It’s why my hair turned white and why my abilities surpass those of other witchers. But after that, that rage inside of me turned murderous. It’s as if the mutagens didn’t just mutate my body; they mutated my mind and my soul, as well. The anger that was naturally inside of me got twisted into a monster. Because after that, I wanted to destroy everything and everyone that ever wronged me in the slightest. That rage has been with me my entire life. So, people are wrong when they say I’m stripped of emotions. I’ve got plenty. I just don’t show them.”

At that point, the witcher stared hard into Evie’s eyes.

“You say I’m good? Evie, I wanted to kill Tayron – to drive my blade right through his heart. I wanted to kill those three soldiers in your cabin – to watch their blood run. And those four men that I killed to save you…I relished it. The darkness in me was screaming with delight. So, how can you say I’m good?”

Evie was quiet for a long time. 

“Okay, Geralt. I think it would be insulting for me to argue with you about your feelings. If you say that you have this feeling inside you, then I’ll take your word for it. That said, doesn’t it count for anything that you don’t act on those desires? You may have wanted to kill Tayron and those soldiers, but the fact is that you didn’t. Doesn’t that alone prove that you’re not a monster? That you are human? That there is goodness in you? I believe we’re defined by our motivations, not by our feelings or thoughts or, even, our actions. And it’s clear to me that, in spite of these murderous feelings you say that you have inside of you, you try to do ‘good.’ I want to believe that God is a forgiving god. No, we’re not perfect, but if we try our best to do ‘good’, if our hearts are in the right place – as I believe yours is - then he’ll forgive us of our wrong actions. Wouldn’t that give you peace? Wouldn’t that give you freedom from fear and guilt– knowing that God forgives you?” 

“A forgiving god?” he asked, slightly shaking his head. “Give me a minute. I need some time to think about that.” 

Geralt closed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if in deep thought. He stayed like that for over a minute before opening his eyes and speaking. 

“Okay. First off, I’ve never come across any religion that states that God is forgiving. As I said, every religion I’ve looked into says that I have to earn my righteousness by my deeds. That my bad deeds aren’t simply forgiven. They have to be paid for or balanced out or wiped clean by my good deeds. I’ve also made it clear that I don’t believe that that’s even possible for me. 

“Also, the idea of forgiveness sounds great, but my sense of fairness would never let me believe in a forgiving god because a forgiving god cannot also be a just god.”

“Wait. Explain that to me, please.”

“Forgiveness is the antithesis of justice. As I said earlier, my definition of justice is that I get what I deserve – whether good or bad. But forgiveness is when I don’t get what I deserve. If I break a law, and I’m standing in front of a magistrate who is going to decide my fate, then if he punishes me, that’s justice. I deserve that punishment. But, if I’m standing in front of that same magistrate, and he simply lets me go despite me being guilty of a crime, then that’s actually an injustice. You can call that forgiveness if you like. But what it clearly is not is ‘justice.’ It’s impossible to reconcile those two concepts – forgiveness and justice. Therefore, I just can’t understand how a just god can also be a forgiving god. And if you tell me that God is not just or fair, then, I’ll be honest, that’s not a god that I want to worship. That’s not a god I want to trust and follow. That certainly wouldn’t give me any peace.” 

“So, then, what would God have to be like in order for you to trust and follow him - or her or it?”

“For simplicity’s sake – so that we don’t have to keep saying ‘him, her, or it’, let’s just call God a ‘him.’ For me to worship a god, I’d have to know that he is three things. And he’d have to be all three of these things. Just being two of the three wouldn’t do.”

“Okay. What three things?”

“God would need to be ‘all powerful,’ ‘all wise’ and ‘all good’ for me to trust him. Anything less and I could never trust that entity with my life. And by ‘all good’ I’m talking about a multitude of qualities like moral rightness, a sense of justice, loving kindness, a faithfulness to his promises, and so forth.”

“Why does he need to be all three of those things?”

“Well, let’s just say that he possesses only two of those qualities. Let’s say that he’s ‘all powerful’ and ‘all wise’ but not ‘all good.’ Now, this is certainly a god that I would do my best to obey, if for no other reason than I would be fearful that if I didn’t, then he would destroy me. But I wouldn’t trust that god. If he’s not ‘all good,’ then I wouldn’t trust that his plans are in my best interest. I wouldn’t trust that he cares for me. That god – while powerful and wise - could also be nothing but a spiteful, vindictive god. So even if I did obey him, it would be nothing but begrudging submission. That is certainly not a god that would instill in me any kind of peace of mind or soul. Nor would that god grant me freedom from fear.”

“Makes sense. I can agree with that. What about if the god is ‘all good’ and ‘all wise’ but not ‘all powerful?’”

“Well, that’s a god that I would certainly care for and would want to have a relationship with. If he was ‘all good’ and full of righteousness and love, then I could know that he truly cares for me. If he’s ‘all wise,’ then he’s a god that I’d certainly want to seek answers from. But I wouldn’t have any peace of mind or soul with this god either, because if he is not ‘all powerful,’ then that means his plans can be thwarted. Either thwarted by other gods – evil gods - or by any of us beings down here on the planet. If a god is not ‘all powerful’ then that means he’s not in control. Not in control of the universe, not in control of the events happening on this planet, not in control of what’s going on in my life. I could trust that that god has my best interest in mind and that he’s got a great plan, but I can’t trust that he actually has the ability to implement and execute that plan. There’s no peace in that scenario either.”

“And a god who is ‘all powerful’ and ‘all good’ but not ‘all wise?’”

Geralt nodded. “Again, I’d try to obey this god because he’s ‘all powerful.’ And I’d also want a relationship with this god because he’s ‘all good’. However, if he’s not ‘all wise’ then how can I truly trust that his plans are best? If he’s not all wise, then that means he can sometimes make mistakes – that his decisions can be wrong. It means that the plans that he thought were for the best, actually aren’t. I can’t truly trust a god like that. There would always be doubts that his commands weren’t actually the best course of action for my life. For, example, let’s take the issue of sex. It seems that all religions – and by extension, the gods of those religions – have some belief and command regarding sex. And it goes from one end of the spectrum – that sex is something we should abstain from or that it’s only for procreation purposes and not for enjoyment – to the other end of the spectrum – that there are no limits to our sex life, that we can do whatever want, whenever we want, with whomever we want. But, if god isn’t ‘all wise,’ then how can I trust that his command regarding sex – or anything else for that matter - is actually right? I can’t. In that case, it’s possible that I actually know what’s better for my life more so than he does. 

“If God isn’t ‘all powerful,’ ‘all wise,’ and ‘all good,’ then I can’t trust him. And if I can’t trust him, then how can I ever have inner peace and freedom from fear?”  
  
“So, to sum up, the only religion that you’d be willing to follow is one in which the god is –” and at this Evie began ticking her fingers – “‘all powerful,’ ‘all wise,’ ‘all good,’ full of love and compassion, and also is somehow just and forgiving at the same time. Is that right?”

Geralt had a small smirk on his face. “Well, when you say it out loud, it sounds a little impossible, huh?” 

Evie smirked back. “Just a little. Have you found this god?”

“Nope.”

“Then, Geralt, what’s this entire discussion been about? Why did you ask me about god when I asked you why you’re helping me?”

“It’s related to what you mentioned before – about you saying I’m a good person.”

“Which you denied. You claim to only have darkness in you, right?”

“Actually, no.” 

Evie had a confused look on her face. Geralt held up a hand and continued, “If I agreed with you that there actually is goodness in me, how would you explain the presence of that goodness?”

Evie was pensive for a moment. 

“Like I said earlier, your ability to not act on your dark urges shows that you’re ‘good,’ that you’re human and not a mutant or a monster.”

“I find it interesting that you equate my ‘goodness’ with my humanity. I couldn’t disagree with you more.”

“And why’s that?”

“Do you remember a few days ago, when I had a bit of a rant about how we don’t come out of the womb prejudiced? That we have to be taught it?”

Evie nodded.

“Well, while we may not come out of the womb prejudiced, it’s my opinion that we do come out of the womb completely selfish – turned in on ourselves. While I’ve never raised an infant, in my hundred years, I’ve seen enough of them to know what’s in our nature – human nature. It ain’t pretty, and it ain’t goodness.”

“What? So little babies are evil?”

“Well, they sure as hell aren’t innocent or good.”

“Oh, come on!”

“I’m serious. While we have to be taught bigotry, we don’t have to be taught dishonesty or selfishness or violence or jealousy. It’s in our nature. We’re born with it. I’ll give you an example. Have you ever seen a group of two-year olds? Have you seen them when they don’t get their way? There’s screaming, crying, punching, kicking, biting. No one taught them that. No one taught them that, if you don’t get your way, then it’s right to bite someone. No one models that behavior for them. It’s just in them. And no one has to teach a little child to lie either. It’s just in them. No one sits them down and says, ‘Now, I realize that all you know how to do is tell the truth, but I’m going to teach you a valuable lesson – the art of deception.’ No, if anything, children have to be taught the exact opposite. They have to be taught that lying is wrong. They have to be taught how and why to share with others. They have to be taught not to turn violent when they don’t get their way. They have to be taught that, if they see another child with a treat, then it’s not okay to simply go over and knock the kid down and take it. And if they don’t learn those lessons when they’re young, then they’ll grow up to be dishonest, selfish, violent, jealous adults. And even if they do learn that it’s not socially acceptable to exhibit those behaviors, that doesn’t mean that those urges aren’t still inside them. Just like I learned at Kaer Morhen. I learned not to display my rage towards my instructors, but it was still there. Always. So, I don’t believe at all that whatever ‘goodness’ I have in me is my humanity. In fact, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that it’s my humanity that’s the darkness.” 

“Okay. I’m not necessarily agreeing with you, but if you say your goodness isn’t your humanity then it’s, as you said, something you learned when you were younger. Someone must have taught you to care for others. Someone must have instilled in you your strong sense of fairness and justice. I’ve heard you speak fondly of a man named Vesemir. It sounds like you respected him.”

“I did and do, but…I’ve thought a lot about this. Vesemir was the kindest instructor I had at Kaer Morhen, but to be honest, that’s not saying much. The others were borderline sadists. And even though he mellowed greatly and treated me more as an equal after I completed my training, he was still seriously flawed. I mean, think about it. What kind of adult would take a little boy – eight or nine years old - and subject him to the Trial of Grasses – the most excruciatingly painful thing I’ve ever gone through in my life? A process that is so lethal that there’s only a twenty-five percent chance of survival. What kind of person does that? And it’s not as if it was done for some altruistic purpose either. It wasn’t done because I was dying and that was the only way to save my life. It wasn’t done to save the world from the White Frost. No, he forced me – and many others - through that hell just so that I could kill monsters - for money. I went through all that to, essentially, become a rat catcher. They’re really big and mean rats, yes, but I’m just a rat catcher nonetheless.

“Now, I’ll admit that Vesemir, despite being an incredibly demanding teacher, did also show me kindness. And he tried to teach me to display common courtesy to others. And he taught me a lot of other valuable lessons – like the benefits of self-discipline and hard work. But what he certainly did not teach me was to care for the weak. He did not teach me to stand up for the oppressed. He definitely didn’t teach me to selflessly sacrifice. In fact, if he tried to teach me anything, it was to not get involved in anything that didn’t pertain to killing monsters and collecting coin. I can still hear him in my head. ‘Don’t get involved, Geralt.’

“So, we’re finally back to your question – of why I’m helping you. I do recognize that I possess a strong sense of fairness, of right and wrong. I admit that, most of the time, I do care about the weak and the oppressed. I do want to help those in need. But I can’t explain where any of that comes from. I don’t believe that it’s my humanity, that it’s in me naturally. Nor do I believe that it’s anything that I was ever taught. So, my only explanation…is that it’s something God put in me. Something he placed in me to fight the darkness. And that’s why I believe that God exists. 

“Now, I don’t know who this god is. I don’t know anything about him – though I’m pretty confident that he’s not a god of any of the religions that I’ve ever come across. I don’t even know why he would choose to touch my life in any way, and I certainly don’t know what he ultimately wants from me. My hope is that, one day, he will reveal himself and his plans to me. But he’s why I can fight the darkness that’s in me. He’s why I defend the weak. And he’s why I’m helping you.”

By that point, Geralt was kneeling again in front of Evie, and she was peering intently at him. 

“How long have you had these beliefs?”

Geralt looked down and shook his head slightly. 

“I honestly don’t know. This is actually the first time I’ve ever voiced my thoughts about him or about what I feel inside. But…I think I’ve known for a long time now. I just didn’t recognize it. Or, maybe I did but just didn’t want to admit it.”

“So, what now?”

“Now…I guess I’ll just start trying to be more aware of his leading.”

“And what is he leading you to do?”

The witcher looked deeply into her eyes. “To help you, however I can.”

After saying those words, Geralt noticed a strange look pass across Evie’s face and she lowered her eyes from his. 

“What is it? Did I say something wrong?” he asked. 

Evie shook her head. “No. Not even close. It’s…me. I…” 

She lifted her eyes to look at him but quickly looked back down again. Geralt remained quiet, just staring at her, giving her time. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. 

“Geralt, if you knew where the sword was located, would you want to find it? Would you want to possess it?” she asked tentatively.

The witcher continued to stare at her. Then, the missing piece of the puzzle regarding her tale of the tome – that piece that had been niggling in his mind - fell into place. 

“Son of a bitch. You know. You know where it is,” he said as he shook his head in disbelief. 

He quickly stood and turned away. He suddenly realized that he felt betrayed – hurt that she had kept this from him. After all he’d done for her, after all the intimate details that he’d shared with her about his life, including his struggles with Ciri’s death, she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him. And, instantly, anger flooded his mind. He felt the urge to hurt her back. To make her feel the same pain he was now feeling. 

He then closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. “No, that’s the darkness talking. You don’t have to listen to it. You care for this woman. You don’t want to hurt her. You want to protect her.” 

When he opened his eyes and turned to face her, he saw tears running down her cheeks, and it dawned on him that not only did he not want to hurt her, he didn’t need to hurt her. She was punishing herself. If there was one thing the witcher knew, it was guilt and self-recrimination, and he could clearly see the remorse on her face.

“I’m sorry, Geralt. I know I should have told you in the beginning, but I…I don’t know why I held back. I’ve been feeling guilty the last two days about not being upfront about everything, and I’ve wanted to tell you. I just didn’t know how to bring it up in conversation. I was afraid you’d be angry that I hadn’t been honest with you.” Evie was speaking fast, voicing her apology without taking a breath. 

Geralt knelt down in front of her, but she wouldn’t look at him. 

“Evie, look at me please.” When her eyes finally met his, he continued. “There’s no need to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. I never explicitly asked you if you knew of the sword’s location. So, it’s not like you actually lied to me. And, to be honest, you didn’t truly know me then. A lot has happened between us in the last two days so…I don’t blame you for not trusting me completely with that information. Hell, at that point, I was keeping things – like Ciri – from you, too. We both had secrets. So, it’s okay.” 

“So, you forgive me?”

Geralt smiled and gave her nod. “I don’t think that there’s anything to forgive, but yes, I do. That said, I do need to ask now – is there anything else about the sword, the tome, or the prophecy that I should know?”

“No. Not that I can think of. Well, except for its location. I don’t know where it is exactly, but the tome did leave some clues. It stated that -”

“Wait,” the witcher interrupted, as he held up his hand. “I…I don’t want to know.”

Evie had a look of confusion on her face. 

“What? But why?”

“You asked me if, I knew its location, would I want to possess the sword. And…I think the answer is ‘no.’ Given the darkness inside of me, given what I know I’m capable of, it’d be best if I never hold that sword. I don’t trust myself with that kind of power. Hell, I don’t trust anyone with that kind of power. You said it yourself – it’s safer if no one ever has it.” 

Evie simply nodded her head. “Okay…you know, the fact that you don’t want it just makes me trust you even more.” She had a smile on her face.

The witcher smirked. “All part of my evil plan.”

Her smile grew wider, and she asked, “So, did we just have our first fight?”

Geralt suddenly recalled some of the epic rows that he’d had with Yennefer over the years.

“Humph. Hardly. Just two flawed people trying to understand each other better.” And then a gleam came into his eye. “Though, if it was a fight, then that means we’d need to make up, right?”

A flush appeared on Evie’s face. 

“Of course,” she said, looking him square in the eyes. “It’s only the right thing to do.” 

Geralt could almost physically feel the desire radiating off of Evie. But as he alternated glances between her eyes and her very kissable lips, a war suddenly commenced inside of him, and he began to mentally kick himself. 

_‘Why the hell did you just say that? Why are you even flirting with her?’_

A voice was telling him that this would only complicate matters. It was shouting warnings – warnings that this would end poorly for him, most likely in another heartache. Because what woman in their right mind would actually want to stay with him? 

“Now, where did that thought come from?” he asked himself. “And when did you become so insecure? You’ve slept with some of the most beautiful women on the Continent. What the hell is going on?” 

Geralt was suddenly in the middle of a crisis because long-repressed emotions were now coming to the surface. In the past year, his grief over Ciri’s death had ‘broken’ something loose inside of him. It had broken his stoicism, his ability to simply ignore the distracting feelings within. And now those distracting thoughts – fueled by feelings of insecurity - were flooding his mind at a most inopportune time.

Suddenly, Geralt saw himself – for the first time - very clearly. He understood that for his entire life – even though he had never voiced it to anyone else or even been truly consciously aware of it himself until now, he had felt unlovable. Why else would his mother – the one person in the world who was supposed to love him more than any other – abandon him to witchers as a child? There must have been something inherently wrong in him, something that she was able to see in him even as a child. He knew, deep down, that he was unworthy of being loved. It’s why he believed their words when people called him a freak and mutant. They saw it, too. It was why he had stayed with Yennefer for so long, despite how poorly she routinely treated him. Deep down, he felt that he simply deserved to be treated that way. 

And on top of the inherent flaw that he obviously possessed, he also had the consequences of the mutations to deal with – specifically his inability to sire children. He believed that if he had learned anything about women in his century of living, it was that they all had two deep desires – a desire to feel safe and secure and a desire for children. So, how the hell could he – a sterile witcher with no home and with a life full of danger – ever truly satisfy either of those two desires? He simply couldn’t. And that’s why – despite his longing for companionship - he rarely let anyone close. He knew if he let anyone see the real him, they’d see him for the unlovable, fraud of a man that he was and refuse to stay. And watching them leave, as he had watched Triss leave from the port of Novigrad, just hurt too damn much. It’s why he typically only sought out relationships that were doomed from the start. It’s why he ended relationships before they could get too serious. It’s why he spent so much time in brothels. It’s why he almost exclusively had trysts with sorceresses. At least with them, his inability to sire children couldn’t disappoint since they, too, were infertile.

But, as strong as those deep-rooted feelings were, they were now being drowned out by another desire – his desire to hold the woman in front of him, the desire to connect with another soul in this lonely world, a desire to hear someone say, ‘You matter.’ He simply wanted to feel loved. And in that moment – as he was looking into Evie’s eyes, that desire won out. 

“So, stop with the negative thoughts. Stop acting like an angst-filled teenager. She wants this and you want this so just be in the moment and kiss her,” he said to himself. 

Geralt leaned forward, placed his hands on the ground beside her, and softly kissed her lips. The kiss lingered and deepened, and Evie wrapped her arms around him and held him closely. As a warmth suffused through him, he pulled Evie up into a kneeling position so that their bodies were pressed together. They continued kissing for a while, but, eventually, he pulled back and then buried his face into her neck and deeply inhaled the scent of her skin and hair. She still smelled faintly of vanilla. He knew it was from the soap that she used, and he also knew he would forever associate that smell with the woman in his arms. They stayed like that – on their knees in a tight embrace - for several minutes, just holding one another. Eventually, Evie broke the silence. 

“My heart is a mess, Geralt. Please be gentle with it.” She felt him nod his head. 

“I will,” he whispered into her ear, and then he asked, “You know that I can’t sire children, right?” 

“Yes. I know. And I don’t care.”

At that, Evie heard Geralt exhale deeply. He, then, moved his head back so that he could look her in the face. They both saw nothing but tenderness in the other. She moved her right hand up and gently traced his long facial scar with her middle finger. 

“I promise that I’ll try not to hurt you, too. Okay?” 

“That would be nice.” 

He leaned in and kissed Evie again, and as he pulled away, he noticed a large smile on her face – a smile that reached up to her eyes. 

“I can’t believe that I just met you a week ago. This has been the craziest week ever,” she said with a laugh.

“Welcome to my life,” the witcher said with a smirk.

They eventually realized that, as much as they’d like to, they couldn’t stay there in each other’s arms under the shade of the tree all day. As they were moving towards their horses, Geralt turned to Evie and said, “You know, there’s actually a second reason – besides God - why I’m helping you.”

“After your first answer, I think I’m afraid to ask.” She raised an eyebrow at the witcher. “So?”

“Anything that will make the Royal Asshole unhappy, then sign me up for it,” he replied with a smirk.

“Now that, I believe.” 


	8. Chapter 8

Book 1: The Wolf Awakens  
Chapter 8

An arrow flew through the air, and with a loud “thump,” it sunk into the trunk of a tree.

“You’re a natural,” said the witcher, while nodding his head. 

The fact of the matter was that Evie wasn’t a natural using a crossbow. She was missing the target almost as much as she was hitting it. However, given that this was the first time she’d ever used it, she wasn’t completely useless with the weapon, and Geralt knew that he needed to boost her confidence in that moment. 

Due to Evie’s minor panic attack after seeing the basilisk, Geralt had decided to give her a training session with various weapons and potions. At first, she had objected, stating that they didn’t have time for such a thing.

“Evie, first off, you fled with that tome two years ago. If the Emperor’s men were going to find your grandmother, they’d have found her by now. Us stopping for an hour or two to train will have no bearing on whether we can save her at this point,” Geralt had argued. “Secondly, you were right when you said that you wouldn’t last an hour out here by yourself. Right now, you are a liability. Now, I’m not going to be able to turn you into a mini-witcher after one session, but you can learn enough skills to perhaps save your life.” 

After hearing his logical argument, she had reluctantly agreed to his training. 

“I didn’t even have to use Axii on her,” he had thought to himself in jest. He had realized, then, that Evie reminded him in some ways of Triss. Like the redheaded sorceress, even if Evie didn’t agree with his opinion, she at least respected him enough to listen to it. He appreciated that about both of them – that they were willing to consider his point of view. 

Thinking of Triss stung a little, but he clearly understood why she hadn’t given him a second chance. He knew that the sorceress from Maribor loved him, but he had simply hurt her too deeply, and she was just too afraid of him doing it again. Given his history of dealing with women, he didn’t blame her. He vowed then not to hurt Evie the way he had with Triss. And Yennefer. And Little Eye. And all the rest. 

That vow made him realize that something was different with him now. He wasn’t sure that he could even articulate it, but he knew he was different. How he now viewed himself was different. How he viewed relationships and love had mysteriously changed. But when had it happened? With Ciri’s death? With the death of the troll? With his conversation with Eskel? With meeting Evie? No, it wasn’t due to any of those events, he thought to himself. The transformation had taken place when he had finally realized that – even though he still didn’t understand why - God had reached down and touched his life. Even though he knew that he didn’t deserve it, he was convinced that God had infused some of his “light” into him. Therefore, maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t so unlovable after all. And that small hope was enough. Just as the slightest turn of a crystal could change invisible light into a kaleidoscope of different colors, a slight shift in his perspective had given him a different view on life, love, and himself. 

That realization made the witcher smile, though it didn’t last long. It felt unnatural on his face. Smiling wasn’t something Geralt had ever done much of in his life, and especially not in the last year. In fact, smiling – and feeling joy – made him feel guilty because he thought it a betrayal to Ciri’s memory. Wasn’t he supposed to still miss her? How could he do that and be in the middle of building a healthy relationship with Evie at the same time? Hell, did he even know what a healthy relationship looked like? He’d certainly never describe what he and Yennefer had as healthy. The witcher shook his head, realizing that he was clearly in uncharted ground. 

After a short lesson on the two different types of healing potions – witcher versus human - Geralt strapped a knife to Evie’s right thigh. He then showed her not only the best way to hold the weapon but also the most lethal spots to stab an enemy. He had to make a concerted effort to focus on the task at hand since being so close to her and touching her body was a serious distraction. He had then found several large rocks that were roughly the same size, shape, and weight of his bombs, and they spent a half hour refining and practicing her throwing motion with both hands. She still had his spare, leather bandolier, and on it, he placed six bombs – two each of Northern Wind, Dancing Star, and Devil’s Puffball. He had explained what each bomb would do. 

“Just remember – freeze, fire, and poison,” he had told her. 

He then had her throw one each of the latter two bombs at a target so that she could experience just what the result would look and feel like upon detonation. For the last half hour, she had been practicing with Geralt’s spare crossbow.

“Two more and we’re done,” the Wolf told her, as he watched her place the crossbow on the ground in a vertical position, put her foot in the cocking stirrup, and then, with a feminine grunt, pull the string back with all her might until it was locked in place. She had just enough upper-body strength to cock the weapon. She placed an arrow in the flight groove, brought the stock of the weapon up to her shoulder, rested her cheek on the wood, aimed at her target, and as she came to the end of an exhalation, she slowly pulled back on the trigger – all as he’d taught her to do. Her arrow struck its target again. 

“Nice. One more,” he encouraged. 

He had told her that once she hit the target five times in a row, then she’d be done. He carefully watched her technique – including her stance, the position of her hands on the weapon, where she placed the stock on her shoulder, her breathing, and the manner in which she pulled the trigger. Geralt knew that the old saying, ‘Practice makes perfect’ wasn’t entirely true. The adage was missing one word. What truly mattered was that one practiced properly, with the right technique. He knew it was quite easy – due to a lack of self-discipline – to slip into poor technique, which would lead to the formation of bad habits, which would lead to dire consequences. In most areas of life, failure wasn’t final. It was simply feedback – feedback that one could, then, use to improve. But not so in the witcher profession. For witchers, failure was final because failure meant death. That had been drilled in his head over and over in his youth. His witcher instructors may have been sons-of-bitches, but they were highly effective teachers. They never tolerated sloppy technique or half-assed effort. To give them either was to feel their displeasure. Geralt learned at a very early age that nothing would get his attention like pain. And the fear of receiving it again in the future was a highly effective motivator. He may not have particularly cared for his instructors, but he was very careful to obey their instructions. 

Despite its effectiveness, however, the witcher realized that instilling pain and fear wasn’t the only motivator. He had learned through his experience with raising and training Ciri that giving support and encouragement was another way to teach and motivate. And depending upon the pupil, it actually could be the better method. He certainly wasn’t going to use fear as a teaching tool with Evie. Fear she already possessed. He needed her calm the next time there was danger. And the only way to be calm was to be confident, which came from being prepared. And that was the whole purpose behind their current training session in the mountains. 

As he continued watching Evie practice, Geralt was suddenly reminded of his time training Ciri, and thinking of her made the witcher melancholy. She had died over a year ago, and not a day had passed in which he hadn’t thought of her, hadn’t thought of the fun and the adventures they could’ve had together on the Path. He even occasionally wondered what it would have been like to be a grandfather, to be able to spoil Ciri’s children. He wondered if he would ever get to the point where he could go a day without her memory passing through his mind. And, then, he suddenly felt guilty - thinking that he shouldn’t want that to ever happen. He should want to keep her memory alive. In fact, it was disconcerting that he couldn’t really picture of her face anymore. Sure, he remembered certain details - that she had ashen hair, green eyes, and scar on her cheek, but when he tried to visualize her face in its entirety, it wasn’t very clear. It seemed his brain only had the ability to focus on one aspect of her face at a time – her eyes or her mouth or her scar. He could picture her smile clearly, but the rest of her face would be blurry. He was in the middle of wishing that he had a picture of her when he was disrupted from his thoughts by the sound of an arrow hitting the tree trunk. 

Evie lowered the weapon and smiled at the witcher. 

“That’s five in a row. I think I’m ready for one of those wolf-head medallions now.”

Geralt looked at her and put a fake smile on his face, hoping that she wouldn’t notice the pain that was behind it. 

“Is that so? Well, I guess that means you can take point from now on.” 

oOo

_Tarsus_

“So, one moment, you’re walking patrol, and then the next, you’re blindfolded, bound, and gagged? And that is all three of your stories?” 

Malek was questioning the three Nilfgaardian soldiers inside of Evie’s cottage. He sat causally in a chair behind her kitchen table, his right leg crossed over his left. The three were standing before him, with the sorceress, Fringilla Vigo, positioned slightly behind him and to his right. 

“Ye-Yes, sir,” stammered Jochim. “He came out of nowhere just like -”  
  
“Yes, yes, just like a wraith. A gravelly-voiced wraith. A wraith who warned you from following her.”

All three men nodded.

“Quite the mystery,” he said as he drummed his fingers slowly on his right knee. “Why would an unknown number of outlaws – four of whom are dead themselves - kill the tavern owner, abduct Miss VanderBosch, and, then, a week later, come back to her cabin to threaten you?” 

It was obvious that Malek was speaking to himself so the three grunts kept their mouths shut. 

Malek’s eyes shifted back to the men in front of him. “Well, you haven’t been tied up in this cottage the entire time. Have you discovered anything else while you were here – particularly, anything else out of the ordinary?”

The three swiveled their head to look at each other, shrugging their shoulders. Finally, Norrie tentatively half-stated, half-asked, “Well, uh, sir, there was…a wyvern and a witcher?”

Ten minutes later, the five were standing before the alderman’s small cottage, Malek knocking with authority on the door. 

A young boy – to Malek’s eye the age of nine or ten - slowly opened the door. Upon seeing the intimidating, mountain of a man in front of him, the lad craned his head back, his eyes wide in a look of amazement and fear. 

“Good morning, lad,” said Malek smoothly with a smile on his face. “We’re here to speak with Alderman Mikelsen. Your father, I presume. Is he here?”

The youth was too awe-struck to speak.

“Oi!” Norrie shouted, while stepping forward and slapping the boy across the back of the head. “You was asked a question, Nordling.” 

Immediately, Norrie’s chin was crushed with a powerful blow. His head snapped to the right, and he fell to the ground with a thud, knocked unconscious.

Malek stood over the soldier with fire in his eyes, but his voice was cold. 

“This boy is a citizen of Lyria, which is now a province of the Nilfgaardian Empire. As such, he is under Nilfgaardian authority, and he is protected by Nilfgaardian law. He will be treated as such.” 

Whether or not he was aware that Norrie was unconscious or whether he was simply speaking for the benefit of the other three, nobody knew and nobody dared to ask. 

“My apologies, young man,” stated Malek after bending down on one knee, more eye-level with the terrified boy. “Please forgive his disrespect. Are your parents home?”

The boy shook his head but still didn’t speak.

Malek raised his head to look up at the sun. 

“You know, it sure is hot out here. I’m awfully thirsty. You wouldn’t, by chance, have something to drink?”

The boy nodded and hesitantly stated, “Me mum made some lemon-water last night.”

“Lemon-water,” repeated Malek with a smile that reached his eyes. “That sounds perfect.”

He then turned to the three still standing behind him, the smile no longer on his face. 

“I will question him alone,” he stated before walking into the cabin and shutting the door behind him. 

oOo

_Blue Mountains_

Something was terribly wrong. Evie felt the chill deepen throughout her body, and with each step forward that she took, it felt as if the temperature dropped another degree. She looked around the thick woods on either side of her but couldn’t see Geralt anywhere. As she gripped her crossbow more tightly, she shifted her eyes back to the narrow, dirt road in front of her – the road that led to the front gate of the elven palace grounds. She couldn’t yet see its gray-colored outer walls due to the dense foliage, but if she looked upward, she could make out the red-tiled roof of a watch tower peeking over the canopy of trees so she knew she was getting close. She continued to move forward with tentative steps, and as she came around a slight bend in the road, she stopped and stood in place. 

Before her, she saw the thick, metal, outer gates - wide-open and unguarded. She quickly glanced up to the walled walkway over the gates but couldn’t detect a soul there, either. Finally, she peered into the palace grounds, her eyes flickering over the hundred-foot long rectangular fountain that ran the length of the grounds up towards the steps and the ornate front entrance of the actual palace. 

Evie remembered the last time she had seen the grounds years ago. The water in the fountain had been a clear, crystal blue and housed numerous brightly colored species of fish. On pedestals, all along the fountain were shining white, marble statues of famous Aen Seidhe rulers and military leaders of the past. Near the center of the fountain was the latest sculpture – that of the queen of Dol Blathanna, Enid an Gleanna. The sculptor had decided to use a pose depicting the queen’s power, with a magical flame rising from her upturned hand. Her magical prowess was no secret, but what was unknown to most was that Queen Enid was also referred to by a select few as Francesca Findabair, one-time sorceress of the Lodge. 

On each side of the fountain there had been carefully manicured gardens - rows upon rows of multicolored flowers and trees, with bees zooming and butterflies flittering about. At the east end of the palace grounds rested an impressive, three-story-tall, royal palace that, to Evie’s eyes, looked as if it could hold at least a hundred rooms. On each “corner” of the castle was a tower that rose one to two stories higher than the rest of the royal residence. With the doors and many of the windows open and several elves moving easily in and out of the palace, the building, with its cream-colored walls and red-tiled roof, had looked like it’d been copied out of one of her fairy tales from youth. It had certainly not been an intimidating or foreboding castle. She recalled hearing lots of conversation and laughter from the elves moving about the grounds. That sunny, spring day, with her grandmother, she had experienced sensory overload from the sights, sounds and smells while strolling through the palace garden on well-tended, walking paths covered in crushed white and pink sea shells. But, now, it was all different.

The vibrant brightness was gone, replaced by a complete and utter dullness. The palace grounds appeared empty – of both elves and any other fauna, and though she was still quite a distance away, the fountain water looked to be a dark, blackish-green. The few flowers that she could see appeared wilted and dead, the trees were missing their leaves, and there seemed to be a thick mist overhanging the entire palace grounds. To Evie, the fog didn’t appear or feel natural. She wondered if she had suddenly lost the ability to see colors, for it seemed that everything was a shade of gray. But the overwhelming dreariness that she was experiencing wasn’t just a dullness of her physical senses. Even though she couldn’t explain why or how, she could feel a touch of despair down in her soul. 

“I don’t sense anyone,” Geralt whispered next to her, making her jump.

“Holy hell, Geralt! Don’t sneak up on me like that,” she whispered back in a startled state. 

“Sorry,” replied the witcher as his eyes scanned in detail the interior of the palace grounds. To Evie, he didn’t sound sorry, but, frankly, she was just glad that he had finally returned.

Ten minutes earlier, as they had made their way toward the elven palace located in the Blue Mountains east of the Dol Blathanna valley below, Geralt had suddenly raised his fist and pulled back on Roach’s reins. The witcher had remained still for over a minute before finally dismounting his horse and motioning for Evie to do the same. 

He moved over to her side and said, “My medallion isn’t twitching, but something’s awry. I can feel it.”

“What is it? I don’t feel anything.” 

The witcher just shook his head, his eyes searching the woods. 

“Can you see the towers of the palace?” he asked, pointing at them over the tree tops.

Evie nodded. They were partially obscured by a low, dark cloud, but she could just make them out. 

“Okay. Then, walk in that direction.”

“What are you going to be doing?” she asked nervously.

“Watching.” 

“For what?”

“For anything watching you.” 

After a pause, he stated, “If I yell at you to run, ride fast.” And then he disappeared into the woods. 

“Swell, Witcher. Just swell.”

A short time later, both Roach and her mount, sensing something disturbing, became very skittish, and it wasn’t long after that that no amount of coaxing on her part could get them to move forward another step. At that point, she loosely tied their reins around the limb of a small tree and continued her journey alone until she was standing with the witcher in front of the open gates of the palace grounds.

“The place looks deserted. Was there a battle here?” she asked.

The witcher didn’t answer, just continued looking around. Finally, he asked, “Which way to your grandmother’s home?”

At one point, Evie’s grandmother, like the other “common” elves, had lived in huts, caves, or up in the trees outside of the royal palace grounds. However, as the overall population of the Aen Seidhe in Dol Blathanna continued to dwindle, Queen Enid decreed that all the elves move inside the palace walls for safety and security. The last time Evie had visited her grandmother – five years ago – she had been living in a small hut on the north side of the palace grounds. Near the armory, there had been living quarters for Aen Seidhe militia, but after virtually all of them had left for the war front to take part in the guerilla maneuvers of the Scoia’tael, their quarters were taken over by those left behind. 

“Over there, through that archway that leads to the armory,” she said as she pointed to her left. 

The White Wolf then turned to face Evie. “If I asked you to stay here and to let me check out her place by myself, you wouldn’t listen, would you?”

Evie stared hard into his eyes. “It depends. On why you’d want me to.”

“Evie, I’m not sure exactly what, yet, but there’s something very dangerous here.”

She shook her head and smiled ruefully. “That’s why I’m here, right? To keep her out of danger. Or, to help her out, if she’s already in it.”

The witcher looked into her eyes for a moment. “Okay. Stay behind me and walk exactly where I walk. Got it?”

Evie swallowed and nodded. The witcher then reached into a small pouch attached to his bandolier and pulled out two potions. He gulped down the witcher elixirs, and as she was standing right next to him, she could hear him hiss through his teeth as he inhaled deeply. She looked closely at him and noticed the veins in his face and neck darken and become much more pronounced. He then quickly unsheathed his silver sword and moved forward. 

As she stepped across the threshold of the palace gate and placed her foot onto the interior of the palace ground, she audibly exhaled as the temperature around her plunged. It felt as if someone had emptied a bucket of ice-cold water over her, and the slight feeling of despair that she’d previously sensed down in her soul began to spread.   
  
“Geralt,” she half whispered, half whimpered. 

“I know. Just stay right behind me.”

As if the drastic change in the appearance of the palace grounds wasn’t enough to cause concern, what also struck Evie was the silence. There was no sound of fish swimming in the fountain or birds chirping in fruit trees that dotted the palace grounds. In fact, there no sound at all, not even the wind. She couldn’t hear anything but her own heartbeat and the crunch of dried, dead grass below her feet. 

They’d only walked twenty paces when the witcher spotted a corpse. It was lying face-up, halfway between the archway of the armory and the entrance to the palace grounds. Geralt walked slowly towards it but stopped about ten feet away. 

“Stay right here,” he whispered to Evie. 

He walked in a circle around the corpse, not even bothering to look at the body. His focus was on the ground, his eyes taking in every detail. After completing his investigation of the ground, he approached the corpse, stopped a few feet away, and then crouched down for a closer inspection. The body belonged to a male elf. That much was clear from the ears and facial structure. Its mouth was open, caught in frozen, ghastly scream. 

The witcher went through a very quick, superficial autopsy – checking the various parts of its head, neck, and hands. He pulled his knife and cut open the elf’s shirt and, then, inspected its exposed chest and abdomen. He scanned the trouser legs and, then, reached down and removed the elf’s boots, examining his feet. Next, the witcher rolled the body over to inspect its back, even lifting its shirt up to view the skin. Finally, he moved back up to the elf’s neck, and using his knife, the witcher made a deep cut across the carotid artery. He stayed in that position for a moment peering at the elf’s neck. To Evie, he looked lost in thought. 

Eventually, Geralt stood, looked up at the mist-covered sky, and then around at the palace grounds, spotted here and there with the strange fog. Though it was mid-afternoon, not a ray of sunlight was peeking through the mist. 

“What happened? How did he die?” remarked Evie in a soft voice.

“Feels frozen,” he whispered back.

“What? How’s that? It’s cold, but not even close to freezing?”

The witcher just shook his head and, then, stood and walked towards the archway, with Evie right on his heels. She pointed Geralt towards her grandmother’s hut, but a quick inspection revealed nothing of consequence until they reached her small bedroom. Evie inhaled quickly.

“Her bed’s unmade,” she stated quietly.

“And?” replied the witcher with a look her way.

“She always made her bed. Always. In fact, everything always had to be in its proper place. Always tidy. She’s a little obsessed, that way.”

The witcher looked at Evie but didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to alarm her any more than she already was so he didn’t say a word about his suspicions. But he didn’t have say anything. Evie knew, too.  
  
“Where to next?” she asked.

“You know where,” he answered.

“The palace.” It was a statement, not a question.

The witcher nodded. “This chill is getting stronger the closer we get to it.”

Before heading to the palace, they entered and inspected the other huts lined in a row. Their quick investigation revealed two more corpses in an identical state to the previous one, but neither were Evie’s grandmother. They made their way out into the palace grounds again, and as they approached the marble steps of the palace, Evie could feel the ominous weight pressing in on her even more. She looked to her right and down into the fountain to see the once-beautiful orange and red and purple fish now floating in the murky water. 

Geralt reached the top of the portico and, then, stopped several paces away from the twelve-foot high, silver and glass front doors of the palace. The door on the left was partially open. On either side of the doors were several, larger-than-life statues of Aen Seidhe warriors, with either swords or bows in hand. The witcher crouched down and stared at the marble floor and then towards the doors. 

“Do you see anything?” Evie whispered.

The witcher shook his head. “No blood, but…there’s something suspicious. I just don’t know what it is.” 

He then peered for a long time through the open doorway and into the interior of the palace. It was pitch-black, and there was not a sound coming from within. Finally, the White Wolf stood and spoke.

“Evie, I think you should stay here.”

She shook her head resolutely. “Geralt, I came here to make sure my grandmother was safe. And that’s what I intend to do. While I am very grateful to you – for everything that you’ve done for me - I didn’t ask you to accompany me. That was your decision. You can’t ask me to sit back and let you take all the risks simply because there’s danger. Heck, this entire journey has been nothing but danger.”

The witcher slowly exhaled. “Evie, I understand. I know I don’t have the right to tell you to do anything. And if I thought your grandmother was in this palace, alive, I wouldn’t even suggest that you stay. But…and I could be wrong, but if any elves are in there, they’re dead. So, your grandmother is either in there and dead, which means you can’t save her, or she’s alive and somewhere out there.” At that, he nodded his head toward the mountains. “But, either way, that means you’ve got no business going in.”

After a moment, Evie responded. “Okay, let’s say that you’re right. Then, that means you’ve got no business going in either.”

Suddenly, the witcher’s brow furrowed, and he, then, nodded his head several times. 

“You know what - you’re right. I got caught up in the moment for a second, thinking I was on the job. But, I’m not, so you’re right. I’ve got no business going in there, either. So... let’s get out of here.” 

With that, he turned and began walking towards the outer gates. Geralt was down the steps and into the gardens when he realized that he couldn’t hear Evie behind him. “Damn it,” he muttered to himself as he stopped walking. Then, he turned around. As he suspected, Evie hadn’t moved and was still standing on the palace portico. 

He walked back up to her.

“I have to know,” she stated simply. 

“You’re not being rational,” growled the witcher. “Let’s check out the forests - see if there are any survivors out there, first. Maybe she’s out there, alive. At the very least, there might be someone who can give us a clue as to what’s going on in here. Right now, I have no idea what it is we’re dealing with.”

“And what if she’s inside, alive, but she dies while we’re in the woods?”

“Evie -”

“If you thought that there was even the smallest chance of Ciri being in there alive, you’d go.”  
  
The witcher stared into Evie’s eyes for five long seconds. She never broke eye-contact, and he finally gave a small nod.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and then he turned and marched his way down the steps and over to the armory. He grabbed an unlit torch from a wall sconce and, then, returned to Evie, giving her the torch.

“Stay behind me. Do exactly what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. And I’m about to take a shot of Cat, so keep that torch behind me and out of my eyes. Deal?”

After receiving a nod of confirmation from Evie, Geralt drank the vision-enhancing potion and, then, reached over and lit the torch in her hand. Suddenly, she felt a smallest fraction better, as if the flame had somehow warmed the ice-cold sense of despair that was within. But the relief didn’t last long. As they stepped through the open door and into the castle, the temperature dropped again. So much that they could now see their breath as they exhaled. Evie began to shiver – her thin blouse and trousers useless against the cold. She was also suddenly awash with feelings of hopelessness. She had no idea how they were going to be able to search every room in the palace. It would take them all night. And, then, the thought of spending the night in the ominous castle made her want to flee. She instinctively took a step closer to Geralt, who was standing still in the middle of the main foyer.

The witcher stood motionless, using his senses to gather feedback from the surroundings. The entry hallway had no second or third story rooms immediately above it, and Geralt observed that there were stairs on either side of the foyer that led to the second-floor landing and, then, on to the third floor. He slowly crept forward, his medallion not yet vibrating. He couldn’t see or hear anything worrisome, but as he took a few steps more into the interior of the palace, his nose picked up something familiar. The stench of a burned body was unmistakable. Having no other clue, the witcher began to follow the odor. He headed up the stairs to the left with Evie right behind him. 

At the top of the second-floor landing, Geralt stopped as he noticed a body on the floor. He bent down to inspect it, but the corpse wasn’t the source of the smell. It wasn’t charred at all. It looked identical to the initial corpse found on the palace grounds. The witcher stood and breathed in deeply, and then he began walking up to the third floor, taking the stairs one at a time. He didn’t look behind him to check on Evie, but he didn’t need to. He could sense the lit torch right behind him, and he could also clearly hear her incredibly rapid heart rate and breathing. 

Evie was doing her best to follow Geralt’s instructions. She held the torch down to her side and slightly behind her. She, in no way, wanted to hinder the witcher’s abilities. However, in holding the torch in this manner, she was virtually blind. The only real way that she could see anything in the dark palace was if she turned her body and walked sideways so that she could view what was behind them. That actually did make her feel a little safer, knowing that nothing was coming up on her rear. However, that meant that she had no idea what was ahead. She began to think the witcher had been right. She had no business going in there. 

As they reached the third floor, the odor of burned flesh intensified. Geralt paused and peered down a long corridor to where he thought the smell was originating. 

“What is it? Why have we stopped?” whispered Evie, her left hand grasping the witcher’s scabbard.

The White Wolf didn’t say anything. He just pointed forward with his left hand, which was a little pointless as Evie couldn’t see anything in front of them. At the end of the hall was a door, just slightly ajar. He could detect the faintest glimmer of light coming from behind the door, as if there were flickering candles in the mystery room. 

As they walked down the corridor, Evie noticed that they were maneuvering in a bit of a zig-zag pattern, as if the witcher was drunk. She was about to ask what was going on when she looked down and saw that he was leading her through a maze of corpses littering the stone floor. 

With each step closer to the end of the hallway, the witcher began to detect slight sounds emanating from behind the door, but he couldn’t discern the source or what they might signify. Finally, a few paces from the door itself, his medallion vibrated lightly – indicating magic, danger, or both. He took two more steps forward, paused, and, then, cautiously reached forward with the sword in his right hand. He used the tip of the blade to gently and slowly push the door open – unfortunately, with an ominous creaking noise, making the witcher wince.

“What the…?” Evie heard Geralt whisper to himself, as they stood in the threshold of the doorway, the historian peeking around the witcher’s back. 

On the floor were several, clearly burnt bodies, but that wasn’t what caught Evie’s attention the most. The long room looked like some sort of lab, with rows and rows of tables. Sitting on top of the tables, were – what looked to Evie – countless round aquariums, perhaps twenty gallons in size each. There were all kinds of tubes coming out of each aquarium leading to other working contraptions. The source of light was originating from the aquariums themselves. They were filled with an eerily glowing, viscous, pink-tinted liquid. There were objects floating within the liquid, but Evie couldn’t immediately discern what they were. She squinted her eyes, and upon recognizing them, she gasped. 

Suddenly, the witcher’s medallion began twitching violently, while at the same time a floating ball of fire and light – about the size of a human head - instantly appeared in the middle of the lab. 

“Evie, run,” stated the monster-slayer calmly.

“What?” she stammered, too in shock by everything that she was seeing.

Suddenly, the ball of fire let loose with a hideous scream, the sound reverberating off the walls.

“Ruuuuun!” he yelled.

Geralt immediately cast an enhanced Quen shield, surrounding himself and Evie with a dome of protection, just moments before multiple, fiery projectiles exploded against it. The witcher reached forward, grabbed the door handle with his left hand, and slammed it shut as he jumped backwards out of the lab. He immediately cast an Yrden Sign on the floor, hoping to trap or, at least, slow down the hostile monster if it chose to pursue. He then turned and sprinted after Evie.

As he raced down the corridor, he heard another soul-piercing scream from behind him as the ball of fire materialized on Geralt’s side of the door. The witcher grabbed a Northern Wind bomb off of his bandolier, and as his left foot hit the floor, he both jumped forward and twisted his body to his left. As he was in the air, facing the lab, he threw the bomb at the fiery ball, and then continued twisting his body so that when he landed, he was facing forward again and continued sprinting toward the stairs. He heard the bomb detonate but didn’t bother looking behind him to see if it’d actually hit his target. As he got to the third-floor landing right by the stairs, he paused to check on his pursuer. Suddenly, the monster stopped half-way down the hallway. Geralt activated another Quen dome an instant before three more fiery projectiles would have incinerated him. For a moment, his vision was filled with a torrent of flames spreading out around him, coating his protective bubble. After a moment, the flames disappeared and, he heard the monster scream a third time – but to the witcher, it sounded as if it was now facing in the opposite direction - before it moved quickly back towards the lab. He didn’t bother following it. His priority was making sure Evie was safe. 

The witcher ran down the stairs and caught up with Evie before she had reached the first floor. As he was running past her, he scooped her up easily in his left arm and tossed her over his shoulder, never losing stride in the process. He sprinted all the way through the palace grounds, out the main gate, into the woods, and to where their horses were tied up before finally stopping and putting Evie down. 

While Geralt was breathing slightly more heavily than normal, Evie was gasping for breath. 

“What the hell was that?” she asked between taking in large gulps of air.

“To be honest, I’m not real sure, but maybe they’ll tell us.” 

“What? Who’s ‘they?’” she questioned in a confused tone. 

“The Aen Seidhe.” Then, talking much louder, he said, “Come on out. I know you’re there.”

Then, to Evie’s eyes, it seemed that a dozen or more elves, with weapons drawn, magically appeared, stepping out of the darkening shadows of the forest trees. 

“On your knees, dh’oine,” snarled an elf, aiming his bow at the witcher’s head.

For several seconds, no one said or did anything – just waiting to see the monster-slayer’s response.   
  
Finally, the silence was broken. “Oh, please, Duirevel. Lower your bow.” came the voice of another elf. 

Evie’s eyes scanned the elves around her, but she couldn’t figure out who had spoken. 

“We have a celebrity in our midst. Don’t you recognize the famous Geralt of Rivia? He’ll kneel for no one. Not even for kings and queens. Right, Gwynbleidd?” asked the voice in a slightly mocking tone. 

Then, an elf stepped forward, and Evie could see that he wore a crimson bandana on his head – a bandana that also covered the upper, right half of his face, including the eye. There was just enough ambient light left for Evie to see that he had multiple scars marring his lower right cheek, jaw line, and the corner of his mouth. Then, the elf smiled, his scars making it look gruesome. 

“I’ve always given royalty all the honor I believe they deserve,” retorted the White Wolf. 

“Ha! Says the man known as the ‘King-slayer,’” responded the elf with mirth.

Evie’s head turned to look at Geralt.

“Hey, I’ve never been convicted of regicide.”

The elf laughed. “That’s something only the guilty would say.”

“You would know, Iorveth. You would know,” stated the witcher and, then, he stepped forward and shook the elf’s hand. 

oOo

_Vizima_

“Are you sure it was Geralt?” asked Yennefer.

“Clearly, it was him,” answered Fringilla. “As I said, I spoke to two different men. They both described the witcher exactly the same – white hair, cat eyes, scar over his brow and down his left cheek, wolf head medallion. Who else could it be?”

“Okay. So, maybe he was in Tarsus, but we don’t know that it’s him who’s involved with this barmaid. Nobody actually saw them together.”

“Oh, please. Who else – with a ‘gravelly voice’ – could single-handedly subdue three Nilfgaardian soldiers? Who else could wipe out the four thieves in a bar like they were nothing more than bothersome gnats?” 

“Ladies,” interrupted Philippa Eilhart. “While I have no doubt that the two of you are quite fascinated with this particular aspect of the mystery, we have greater questions that must be answered.” 

Upon arriving back in Vizima, Fringilla had asked Malek what the next course of action would be regarding the professor.

“You will do nothing,” he had replied, his eyes piercing into those of the sorceress. “If, and when, your services are needed again, you will be informed.”

Less than an hour later, Fringilla had contacted her two fellow sorceresses to share the details of her excursion with Malek. The three practitioners of magic didn’t know much about Malek, but considering the Emperor had made it clear to them that he had free access to their special powers at any time, they knew well the important role that he played. “Consider an order from Malek to be an order from me,” had been the Emperor’s decree to the sorceresses. Obviously, the man wasn’t just some errand boy. He would not be sent to track down someone who’d committed any ordinary act of treason. The sorceresses knew that a quarter of the empire could, conveniently, be accused of that. Heck, they themselves, at differing points in time, had been accused of that charge. So, the question was – just what did Malek and, by extension, the Emperor want with the one-time history professor turned waitress.

“The writing is clearly on the wall for our dear Emperor,” continued Philippa. “Unless something changes soon, I don’t believe that any of us foresee Emhyr holding his position much longer. And the man is not stupid. He must know it as well. Thus, I have to believe that he would be doing everything in his power to retain his power. Therefore, this woman must be of great importance.”

“Yes, we already know all that, Philippa,” remarked Yennefer. “So, what are these greater questions?”

“Why is she important? And if she is so important, why is it that, apparently, only five people – Emhyr, Malek, and, now, the three of us – know that she is? She must have knowledge of or access to something that could turn the tide of this war. And if she has the ability – direct or otherwise – to change Emhyr’s fate, then why hasn’t he shared that with us? Why the secret? What’s he hiding? He should have every person at his disposal searching for her.”

The other two sorceresses nodded their heads in understanding and agreement. 

“I think it’s high-time that we found out just who this mystery woman is. And I just happen to know of _someone_ who has a strong connection to a white-haired witcher who, more than likely, but for unknown reasons, is traveling with her. How serendipitous,” finished Philippa with a smile. 

Though she couldn’t see Philippa’s eyes, Yennefer knew she was staring at her. Fringilla, after hearing Philippa’s words, stared at Yennefer for a moment, too. And then she quickly averted her eyes, looking down at her hands resting her lap, hidden below the table. Hands that were grasped together very tightly. 


	9. Chapter 9

Book 1: The Wolf Awakens  
Chapter 9

  
_Blue Mountains, east of Dol Blathanna_

Though his face retained its normal appearance of stoicism, the witcher was surprised. He had just stepped into the entrance of a medium-sized, dank cavern, and as he looked around, he could see two or, at most, three dozen elves. Was this all that was left of the Aen Seidhe, he thought? Surely not. Surely, there were hundreds of other elves congregating in various other communities in the mountains. Surely, there were dozens and dozens of other scouts and warriors roaming the woods, on the lookout for invaders to their domain. But if not…if this was all that was left…then, he felt pity. 

He’d always felt a certain kinship with the Aen Seidhe. Though, he didn’t really know why for he didn’t particularly like them. They, in truth, could be quite difficult to like. In general, they were incredibly arrogant, believing themselves to be vastly superior to the human race - superior to every race, actually. They held as much prejudice towards humans as humans held towards them. And for some of them – like Iorveth - their prejudice was violent, bloody, and unmerciful. In many ways, their arrogance reminded Geralt of the Lodge of Sorceresses, almost every member of the royal and noble classes that he’d ever met, the Nilfgaardians, and the Aen Elle elves - all groups for which he held a deep disdain. So, he wasn’t sure why he didn’t lump the Aen Seidhe in with them, as well. He assumed it was because, during his lifetime, the Aen Seidhe had always been the outsiders, the ostracized. And while the former groups were in positions of power and always willing to do anything to attain more, in his experience, the Aen Seidhe were simply trying to survive. They just wanted a nation that they could call their own and to be left alone. And the witcher couldn’t blame them. He’d seen first-hand how the ones who’d decided to compromise and tried to assimilate into human society had fared. Pogroms, burnings, beatings, systematic persecution…but, then, his thoughts were interrupted. 

“This way, Vatt’ghern,” instructed Iorveth.

After their greeting in the forest, the elven commander had inquired as to why Geralt was mucking about in Aen Seidhe land. At that point, the witcher introduced Evie and explained that they were looking for her grandmother. Upon the revelation that Evie’s veins carried Aen Seidhe blood, she could sense dozens of elven eyes, appraising and scrutinizing, shifting her way. Now that they knew she was a “mutt” – as she’d been called many times - she wasn’t sure if they now felt more or less contempt for her. But that was something she’d gotten used to over the years. After asking for the grandmother’s name, Iorveth nodded his head, instructed his men to maintain their patrol in the woods, and then escorted Geralt and Evie alone higher up into the mountains. There had been virtually no discussion throughout the fifteen-minute walk, during which time the sun had begun to set. Geralt, at the beginning of the short journey, had asked Iorveth a question about what he’d been up to for the last two years, but the elf’s eyes had shifted quickly over to Evie, before looking back at Geralt and responding with a curt, “Later.” Geralt understood. While he had somewhat earned Iorveth’s trust through their temporary and unlikely alliance during his time in Flotsam and Vergen two summers ago, he knew that the historian still hadn’t.   
  
Evie, now standing in the entrance of the cavern, was, for the first time in the last several hours, feeling hopeful. The fact that this elf hadn’t immediately informed her that her grandmother was dead made her believe that she just might actually be alive. As she followed Iorveth and Geralt through the cavern, she took in her surroundings. She noticed three very thick, rock columns spotted here and there within the cave. These columns had very thick bases, narrowed a bit as they got higher, but then gradually thickened again as they connected to the ceiling of the cave. She looked up and to her right to see that the column nearest the entrance wasn’t actually connected to the ceiling at all. 

She also noticed that there were four to five, small campsites set up throughout the relatively large cave. Each campsite was really nothing more than a small fire surrounded by a handful of elves of differing age and gender. But she didn’t see any tents, crates, or barrels of supplies that were typically associated with a campsite. As much as she was feeling hopeful, when she looked into the faces of the elves, she saw the exact opposite. Through her dozen or more visits to her “Nain” over the years, she had come to learn that the Aen Seidhe were a proud race. A race who believed that they were unique and special. She had always sensed an indomitable spirit within them. But now as she looked at them, sitting with shoulders hunched and speaking in whispers, to her, they looked broken. In her travels, she had once come across a camp of refugees - people who had been forced to flee their war-ravaged land with nothing but what they could carry and wear. Folks who had lost their loved ones, their homes, their sense of identity. Looking at these elves reminded her of them. She couldn’t see the typical “fire” in their eyes or the determined set of their jaws. They looked, for lack of a better word, resigned to their lot. It was startling for her to see.   
  
Evie looked up just in time to see that Iorveth and Geralt had stopped in front of her.

“You have guests, Lydial,” announced Iorveth loudly, before facing Geralt. “I’ll return shortly. I’m sure that an audience will be requested.” 

He then turned and walked towards a group of elves near the back of the cavern. While Geralt’s eyes followed the retreating elf towards his destination, he heard two simultaneous shouts - shouts that were half-queries, half-exclamation.

“Evangeline?” “Angel?” came two voices behind him.

The witcher turned and watched as two figures rose from their seated position around the fire and rushed toward Evie. They embraced her in a long hug, during which Geralt eyed them closely. Despite Lydial looking only five to ten years older than Evie, the witcher knew that she was probably, in fact, around his age. Even though the expected life-span of an elf seemed to diminish with each passing generation, they were still capable of living two or three centuries. She was quite tall, about the same height as Geralt, himself. She had reddish-brown hair that she wore in the traditional Aen Seidhe style – long and flowing with a thin braid originating at each temple and hanging down past the jawline. Geralt could see pure joy radiating from her face as she hugged her granddaughter. 

The male’s clothing and hair style were elven, but his facial features made it clear that he was human. He was the tallest of the three, with hair color almost identical to Evie’s. He, too, seemed to be very pleased to see Evie, which, to Geralt’s surprise, caused a weird surge of emotion to well up from within the witcher. He had the sudden desire to step in between them to end their hug. 

“Barcain? What…what are you doing here?” 

Geralt heard Evie ask in a shocked tone while still in the middle of the three-way embrace. Hearing the name, the witcher was confused, too. From previous conversations, he knew Barcain to be one of Evie’s older brothers. But, if he remembered correctly, Barcain was a career soldier in the Nilfgaardian military. He could have sworn that it was the other brother, Abelard, who’d had close ties to the Aen Seidhe. 

Instead of answering, though, Barcain stepped out of the embrace and nodded towards the witcher. “Who’s your friend, Angel?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at Evie. “Angel?”

She shrugged her shoulders but had a small, somewhat embarrassed smile on her face. 

“Only this guy – and my other brother - call me that. My entire life, everyone’s called me Evangeline. It’s why I chose to go by Evie when…” And then she paused, looking at the other two. “Angel is just a shortened version of my name. That’s all.” 

“Oh, no, no, no,” interjected Barcain with a laugh, looking at Evie with a mischievous smile on his face. And then he turned to Geralt. “It’s because she was the perfect little child. She could do no wrong. Always trying to please. ‘Yes, Mama. Yes, Papa. How else can I help?’ She was quite adorable…and irritating.” Evie lightly slapped him on the shoulder.

Barcain laughed with Evie and, then, stepped forward and extended his hand. “Barcain VanderBosch.”

“Geralt of Rivia.” 

“It’s a pleasure, friend,” responded Barcain with a smile as he shook the witcher’s hand.

For the next several minutes, the four of them sat around the small campfire. In accord with Aen Seidhe customs regarding hospitality, Lydial busied herself with brewing some tea and pulling from her meager supplies some spiced flat bread for her guests. There was much animated discussion and laughter among the group, but Geralt really wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. He was focused on Iorveth and the other three elves with whom he was speaking. They were situated towards the very back of the cavern. He could easily ascertain from the looks on their faces that their discussion was not nearly as light-hearted and jovial. Suddenly, at the same time, the other three elves’ heads all turned in the witcher’s direction. One of the elves – with long white hair – gazed at him with an obvious look of scorn. Geralt didn’t recognize him or the other male elf, but he easily remembered the female elf in the middle. 

He’d first seen Francesca Findabair at a mages’ ball on the Isle of Thanedd many years ago. With her golden hair, azure eyes, and flawless figure, her beauty had been startling then, and it was impossible to mistake who she was now. He and the sorceress-queen made eye contact from across the cavern for several seconds. She eventually turned her attention back to the intense-looking conversation around her. 

The White Wolf looked briefly at Lydial and Barcain and, then, he began to stare at Evie. His eyes moved quickly over to the four elves at the back of the cave and then back to Evie again. As he took in the profile of her face, he thought about what the two of them had just encountered in the elven palace grounds. He thought about what they’d witnessed in the third-floor lab, and he was starting to get a very bad feeling about being there. It was a fallacy that the witcher “brought” trouble with him wherever he went. The truth was that the world was already full of trouble, and, typically, more times than not, whatever trouble people had, they had brought it on themselves. That said, as he was viewed as someone who made trouble go away, he was inevitably brought into it. And, most times, the witcher didn’t mind. That’s how he made his living, after all. But what he did mind was when his friends were brought into the fray through no fault of their own and no choice of their own. Being the witcher’s friend, he knew, deserved hazard-duty pay - as Dandelion, Milva, Regis, Zoltan, and a few other of his friends could attest. He didn’t want Evie to have find out that unfortunate fact, as well. She was in enough danger from the Nilfgaardians, as is. 

Suddenly, the witcher quickly stood. The three around him immediately stopped their conversation and looked up at Geralt. 

“Sorry. Gotta check on the horses. I’ll be right back.” He looked at Evie for a moment longer before turning and heading toward the cavern exit.

“You know, Angel, your companion is not the most sociable fellow,” stated Barcain with a smirk.

“Yes. He is a bit of an acquired taste,” she responded with a smile as she watched him walk away.

Geralt calmly and slowly navigated around the various campfires, ignoring the stares from the Aen Seidhe sitting on the cavern floor below him. He exited the cave and headed over to Roach, whose reins had previously been thrown around a low fork in a nearby tree. He quickly uncoiled the reins and grabbed the top of the saddle, preparing to place his foot in the stirrup. But he didn’t. He simply stood there, motionless, by her side. 

“What am I still doing here?” he thought to himself. He’d helped Evie find her grandmother. It was now time to move on down the Path because the job was complete. Then, he corrected himself. Hell, he wasn’t even on a job. Evie hadn’t paid him for this. He was only helping her because…well, he didn’t even really know why. For some reason, he just felt drawn to her, responsible for her. He shook his head slightly at that, a look of confusion on his face. He didn’t understand that at all. Regardless, he knew that the smartest and safest action for Evie was for him to move on. Evie had met up with her family. She could now warn them of any potential danger from the Nilfgaardians, and, then, she – and possibly they - could go back into hiding in some remote town north of the Pontar River, well away from Nilfgaardian presence. 

The witcher remembered what he’d promised himself the previous day – that he wouldn’t hurt her. But this was different. He wasn’t leaving her out of insecurity and cowardice – out of fear for himself – as was his habit in the past. He was leaving her out of fear for her. He knew that if she stayed in his life, then she would die – eventually – because of him. And, at that thought, Ciri’s face flashed in his mind, and he felt a stab of pain in his chest. 

The selfish part of him didn’t want to leave. He was really starting to care for the woman; though, frankly, that scared him to death. But he was willing to leave as a sacrifice for her. And since it was a sacrifice, didn’t that make leaving okay? He nodded his head at his logic, but he still didn’t put his foot in the stirrup. He continued to stand by Roach’s side, motionless for…he didn’t know how long. Eventually, he bowed his head and sighed deeply as he realized two things – one, he wasn’t going to leave, and two, he would be going back into that elven palace. And he knew that he’d do it willingly, without protest, because he’d be damned if he’d let them use her. If they even hinted at harming her as a means of coercion, then blood would run. He raised his head as he picked up the sound of footsteps behind him. Then, he caught the faintest scent of vanilla, and he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. 

“Is everything okay?” he eventually heard Evie ask softly.

Geralt turned around, and his eyes slowly took in her face, every detail. He couldn’t explain it, but he didn’t think that she’d ever looked more beautiful. He knew that, objectively speaking, Evie’s looks paled in comparison to Francesca’s – and to those of every other sorceress for that matter. But, to him, there was no contest. She was like no other woman he’d ever met. Evie possessed warmth, compassion, vulnerability, integrity, wisdom, humor, bravery, and…a refreshing genuineness. Whatever flaws she had, whatever assets she had, he knew that he was seeing the real her. There was no deception. No guile. No cover-up. There was just her. Just Evie. He reached up with his left hand, removed the glove from his right, and tucked it into his belt. He, then, did the same with his left. But his eyes never left her the entire time. 

“Evie,” the witcher stated simply, barely above a whisper. 

When he didn’t continue, a small furrow came to her brow and a tentative smile appeared on her face. 

“Yes…Geralt,” she replied back with uncertainty. And, then, she saw the hunger in his eyes.

He took two steps forward, grabbed her face with both hands, and kissed her deeply. She immediately wrapped her arms around him and pressed into him. They continued for several minutes, kissing with abandon in the moonlight, the occasional moan rumbling up from her throat. One passionately whispered the name of the other in between their lips quickly and desperately meeting again. Eventually, a cough from behind them made them break their kiss. Both of them were breathing quite heavily. 

“I do hate to interrupt,” spoke Iorveth. Even though neither were looking at him, they could “hear” the smile on his face. 

“Gwynbleidd, when you have a moment, Queen Enid would like a word.” 

Geralt looked down at Evie, still cradling her face in his hands, his thumbs resting lightly on the skin below her temples. Her eyes were, suddenly, full of concern. He looked over her head at Iorveth and gave him a nod. He then looked back down at Evie.

“It’ll be okay,” he assured her.

oOo

“Damn, I’m tired of being right,” the witcher thought to himself. 

There were three large logs that had been arranged into the shape of a triangle with a small camp fire in the middle. He was sitting on one of the logs by himself, opposite Iorveth, Francesca, and the other two elves. Sure enough, they were questioning him on what he’d seen in the palace grounds and the palace itself. The white-haired elf seemed to be asking most of the questions, and it appeared as if he’d taken an instant disliking to the witcher. Geralt knew it was simply a matter of time before they made their demands; though, he thought that it would probably be couched as a contract offer, at least, initially.

“Didn’t see much. Dead bodies that looked frozen. That’s it,” the White Wolf answered. 

“Nothing else? Nothing in the palace?” brusquely asked the white-haired elf, who still hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself. 

He was staring at the witcher with narrowed eyes, as if he was trying to read the witcher’s mind. Due to the elf’s beady eyes, pointed nose and small, pursed mouth, Geralt decided that he’d just call him “Rat-face” until he found out his real name. Perhaps, even afterwards, as well. 

Geralt wasn’t going to mention anything about the third-floor, even if they brought it up, which it didn’t look as if they were going to do voluntarily. He didn’t know exactly what was going on in that lab, but it didn’t look good. And if it was something too nefarious – and he thought that it was possible given the presence of the screaming, flame-throwing ball of light - then they might simply choose to kill him and Evie right then and there to cover up whatever they’d been up to.

“No. We were only in there about a minute when we felt the temperature drop around us. We couldn’t see anything but sensed something in front of us. Evie screamed and took off running. I threw a couple of bombs in front of me and, then, ran out right behind her.” 

Geralt hoped that lie sounded believable. He still had no idea what had killed the ‘frozen’ corpses that he’d discovered so he was trying to be as vague and generic as possible. Francesca made eye contact with the white-haired elf who was not only shaking his head but, from the look on his face, also appeared has if he’d just sniffed someone’s flatulence. Then, she looked at the other elf, and, finally, at Iorveth – both of whom nodded their heads in the affirmative.  
  
“And here it comes,” thought Geralt.  
  
“Vatt’ghern,” began the queen, “we could clearly use the services of someone with your skill-set. Of course, we’d be willing to pay.”

“Yes, we know your kind won’t work for free,” Rat-face stated snidely, putting as much derision into the word as possible.  
  
“Well, yeah…I am a witcher. I take on contracts. Not charity…for the weak and impotent,” responded the White Wolf, looking directly at Rat-face when he said the last. 

Geralt was having a hard time keeping both the sarcasm and contempt out of his voice. For Evie’s sake, he wanted to keep the conversation as uncontentious as possible, but the white-haired elf was making it very difficult. What the witcher really wanted to do was to remove Rat-face’s head from his neck. 

“You insignificant worm. You shouldn’t even -” started Rat-face. 

“Enough, Allendor,” Francesca said with authority to the white-haired elf. 

Apparently, his sarcasm and contempt had come through after all. Perhaps, he should have also left out the “weak and impotent” part, the witcher thought to himself. Regardless, he sure as hell wasn’t going to apologize to the rat-faced elf. 

Queen Enid then turned back to Geralt.

“So, what is the price to remove the entity in the palace grounds?”

Geralt looked down and rubbed the back of his neck. This was the tricky part. The truth was that he would do it for free just to ensure that Evie remained safe, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them that. 

“Two hundred Novigrad crowns or the equivalent in gems.” 

“Outrageous!” hissed Rat-face.

“No, actually, it’s not,” retorted Geralt calmly. “In fact, I’m probably charging too little.”

“And why do you say that, Gwynbleidd?” asked Iorveth with a smirk on his face. The elf seemed to be enjoying himself. 

“Because I know you, Iorveth. I’ve seen the fighting skill that you and your men possess. And I also know that Queen Enid here is a very powerful sorceress. And I’m going to assume that you’ve already tried to remove this entity yourselves…and failed. Which tells me that it is considerably dangerous. So, the price probably should be four to five hundred crowns. But I’m giving a ‘friends and family’ discount.”

Iorveth’s smirk grew wider and he mock-clapped his hands in front of him. “I told you he wasn’t stupid, Allendor.”

oOo

Evie was watching Geralt the entire time that he was speaking with Queen Enid and the other three elves. Eventually, she saw him rise from where he was seated, walk carefully out of the cave, and, then, return shortly carrying his two large saddle bags. He returned to where Evie, Lydial, and Barcain were camped, sat down next to Evie, and turned to Lydial. As he was about to speak, he felt Evie reach under his arm and place her hand on his forearm. He looked over, into her eyes, and couldn’t help but smile. It was a small smile, but it was there, nonetheless. He, then, turned and looked at Evie’s grandmother.  
  
“Lydial, I know that the Aen Seidhe are very secretive about…well, everything, but I’m hoping you can give me some answers. I don’t trust that group over there to tell me that water is wet.”

Lydial didn’t say anything for the longest time. “You’re going back into the palace, aren’t you?” she finally asked.

The witcher just nodded his head. Lydial looked at him and then at her granddaughter. What she saw on Evie’s face was unmistakable. 

“What do you need to know?” she finally asked.

At that point, the witcher pulled his knife from its scabbard. 

“How about we start was something not too intrusive?” 

He then flipped the knife into the air, catching it by the flat part of the blade, and handed it handle-first to Lydial. He asked her to draw in the dirt a layout of the grounds. She talked as she sketched with the knife, indicating the location of the stables, the main kitchen, the servants’ living quarters, and the like. Next, he had her draw, to the best of her knowledge, a diagram of the palace itself, especially all doorways leading in and out. She didn’t know exact details of the palace, but she had been in it a handful of times and could give him the general layout. It turned out that the square-shaped palace was “hollowed” out in its center. The palace had been constructed around a large, uncovered garden. One could sit in that area and, depending upon the time of day, have the sun or stars overhead. 

“Okay. Next questions,” continued the witcher. “This monster or beast in the palace – did you see it? Can you describe it? When did it first show up?”

“Well, the time I saw it – the first time, I think, any of us saw it – was less than two weeks ago,” said Lydial. “But it started, at least, six months ago.” 

She then looked at Barcain, who nodded in agreement. Geralt just remained quiet, listening. He knew that, sometimes, the worst thing he could do once he got someone re-telling a story was to interrupt them.

“This ‘thing’ is hard to describe. I only saw it once, the night we all fled from the palace grounds. It didn’t have a particular shape or form. For example, it didn’t have the look of an elf, a wolf, or a bird. It didn’t look like any living thing I’ve ever seen– just like condensed, thick fog – but, not really like that either. But it’s the blackest of black I’ve ever seen. Like I said, I saw it at night, so things were already dark. The only reason I could tell something was there was because it was just so much darker than the night sky around it. Do you know how, normally, light gets rid of the darkness? With this thing, I get the feeling that it’s the exact opposite. I get the feeling that if I’d seen it during the day, it would’ve just sucked in all the light from around it, making everything else dark around it.”

“And cold,” add Barcain. “When it appeared, I felt a chill down into my bones that I’ve never experienced even on the coldest of days. I once spent a winter up in Poviss, and I’ve never felt anything like this.”

Lydial nodded. “The night it attacked, there in our huts by the armory, I woke up to some screaming, and I was shivering in my bed. We all ran outside. When we saw it, we all took off running towards the gates. I heard a yell from behind, and when I looked back, I saw that Lorrian had fallen to the ground. The ‘thing’ looked different then. Like, it had become more solid or dense, and then it just wrapped itself around Lorrian and…May Essea bless his soul.” She didn’t continue, just shifted her gaze to the fire. 

“It didn’t speak, make any noise?” Geralt asked.

Lydial and Barcain looked at one another, shaking their heads. 

“Not that I ever heard,” replied Barcain.

“You said this started six months back. What makes you say that since you only saw this black mist last week?” 

“You went in there, right?” asked Lydial. Upon seeing Geralt nod his head, she continued. “Then you know how dark and cold it is. But not just that, you feel…dreadful.” 

Barcain picked up the story. “We didn’t notice at the time. I mean, you don’t really notice if the temperature drops just one degree. You may not even notice if the temperature drops ten degrees if it’s done gradually one degree per day. You’d only notice if it was a drastic drop in a short period of time. But, this past week, since we fled, we’ve been discussing this – pretty much non-stop. We remembered that we made a comment to each other months ago – when we should’ve been enjoying the beginning of spring weather - that the winter seemed particularly long and depressing this year. It didn’t really seem important at the time, but now it does.”

“But it actually could’ve started even months before that,” added Lydial. “Most likely, we probably didn’t even notice it if it was a gradual change. Now that I really think about it, the cold and dark and dreariness may have started last summer, just not to the extent it is now.” 

Geralt was listening intently, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands laced together in front of him. 

“Geralt, I’m confused. The black fog they’re describing is nothing like the thing that we saw,” interjected Evie in a whisper.

He turned to her, nodded his head, and said quietly, “I’m getting there.” 

She looked back at him and nodded her head. This was his area of expertise, after all. She’d defer to him.

“I know that a group of elves went back in recently. Do you know anything about that?”

Lydial turned to look at Barcain.

“Yeah, I was one that went in – about twenty of us,” he said.

“Was Queen Enid part of the group?”

“Yes, and Ida Emean, too. She’s a sorceress, as well.” Geralt nodded that he knew. “They split the groups up. The group I was in searched the lower floor of the palace. Queen Enid and Ida’s group said they’d take the top floor. We agreed we’d work our way through the rooms and meet in the middle.”

“Let me guess, that never happened.”

Barcain shook his head. “We were in the palace maybe ten, fifteen minutes, when we heard chaos from up above. We ran towards the main stairwells at the front of the palace and headed up, but by the time we hit the second floor, we met the other group already coming down. There was only four of their group left.”

“Who else besides the queen survived from that group?”

“Allendor, Iorveth, and Nuremel.” Barcain paused just a moment before adding, “The four you were talking to earlier.” 

The witcher nodded his head. He didn’t look surprised at all by that information.

“And I’m betting they haven’t discussed with anyone what happened while they were on the top floor.” 

“That’s a bet you’d win.”

“Okay,” said Geralt as he turned his attention back to Lydial. “I appreciate what you’ve told me so far. This is where the questions become more difficult, more personal.” He paused a moment, leaned forward slightly, and in a lowered voice asked, “In the past six to twelve months, has there been anything else going on in this community? Anything out of the ordinary – fights, elves going missing, weird dreams, strange noises at night, blood falling from the sky – any of that sort of thing?”

Lydial just stared at the witcher.

“Nain,” Evie stated softly, “you can trust him. I promise.”

Lydial looked at Barcain. 

After a moment, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Chiesa?”

She sighed, nodded her head, and, then looked Geralt in the eyes. 

“What do you know about the elven reproductive cycle?” she asked.

“Let’s pretend I know nothing and start from there.”

For the next ten minutes, Lydial gave the witcher a crash course on the ins and outs of Aen Seidhe reproduction, specifically regarding the female of the species. Male elves were almost identical to humans with regards to their development of sexual organs. Both seemed to mature and obtain the ability to procreate in their early teenage years. And like human males, the elf counterpart could sustain that ability to sire children very late into life. The female Aen Seidhe, however, were very different than her human counterpart. And it was these differences that was causing the Aen Seidhe to die out. 

The first difference was that female Aen Seidhe didn’t start producing viable eggs until sometime in their late 40’s to early 50’s. Given the dangers of the world – disease, famine, persecution, and war – many females simply didn’t live long enough to reach the age of fertility. Secondly, while the total number of potential eggs produced by the human and elf were roughly the same over the course of their lifetimes, the “window” of fertility for the two were dramatically different. A typical woman could remain fertile for thirty or more years, ovulating roughly once a month. A female elf, on the other hand, had only somewhere between five and seven years to bear children, though she did, amazingly, produce one egg each week during that time. Thirdly, compared to the nine-month gestation period for a human fetus, elves required around eighteen months of development between conception and birth. Thus, even in a best-case scenario, it would have been very rare for an Aen Seidhe family to have more than two to three off-spring. Taken all together, it became clear why humans had been able to conquer the elves and push them from their lands. The Aen Seidhe had simply been overwhelmed by the humans’ ability to procreate. With everything else being equal, in a war of attrition, the more populous nation would always win. 

“Interesting,” remarked the witcher. He then raised his brows and prompted, “And?”

“Look around, Geralt. There are very few of us left. Of course, this isn’t news to us. As a community, we’ve discussed for years how we could turn this around. One of the most obvious solutions was to obtain a nation of our own. A land where we’d free of persecution. But that’s never worked out. Even when we’re given land, the humans, eventually, come in. Bring in their diseases and push us out.” 

“And the other solutions that were suggested?” 

Lydial sighed. “Things got…contentious with the proposed decree of forced pregnancies.”

Evie’s eyes went wide, and Geralt nodded. “I bet.”

“Now, don’t misunderstand. I’m not talking about a female being taken against her will. Those in authority – the queen and her advisors - were going to allow the female to pick who she wanted as the father. But make no mistake – the decree made it clear that the female would get pregnant, and would get pregnant as many times as possible, for as long as she was able.”

“And, if she chose not to?” asked the witcher.

Lydial shrugged. “Fortunately, it never came to that. There were…are only a handful of fertile elves and they all chose to get pregnant voluntarily. So, the decree was never actually enforced. But that just goes to show how desperate things have become.” 

Geralt shook his head. “I wonder why the queen and her advisors thought a decree like that would even be necessary. I’d think the Aen Seidhe females would want to have as many children as possible simply out of a civic duty.”

“For the most part, I agree,” stated Lydial.

“Hell, Queen Enid could have even incentivized things, given a little external motivation. Offered goods, or land, or services for every child born.”

Lydial nodded. “Yes, that would have been a much better approach than a dictatorial decree stripping us of personal liberties,” she replied with understatement. 

“Bloody political elite. I swear, they’ve got no sense,” said Geralt shaking his head.   
“But it doesn’t end there, does it?”

“No. Despite the decree not being passed, the events did create a divide in the community between the Esseans and the others. Well, it didn’t create the divide. Just made it bigger.”

Geralt furrowed his brow. “Esseans? I’ve never heard of them.”

“They are those who believe that Essea is God.”

“Wait, I thought the Aen Seidhe believed in the god, Dana Meadbh?”

Lydia nodded. “There are some that do and some that don’t. The Aen Seidhe, in this respect, are similar to the other races. Our religious beliefs run the gamut, from atheism to polytheism. But the Esseans are the faction of the Aen Seidhe that believe that Essea is the one, true, living God and that all other beings – both spiritual and earthly - are subservient to Him.”

“Okay, that’s definitely new knowledge, but why did this proposed decree cause a division between Esseans and others? I would think that a controversial law like that would have united everyone.”

“Because Esseans believe in the sanctity of the family, the beauty of marriage. And that children should only be conceived within the confines of that hallowed family. When a child is brought into this world without a loving father and mother…there are always negative effects…for the child and for our society, as a whole.”

“I still don’t understand the problem. You said all the females chose to get pregnant so that the decree wasn’t passed.”

“Indeed, they did choose to get pregnant, but not all chose to marry.”

“Ah,” responded the witcher. After a moment, he continued. “So, then, what exactly was…or is the Esseans’ plan to repopulate the Aen Seidhe?”

“To simply trust in Him, that He will provide a refuge for His chosen. We simply need to trust in Him and obey His commands.”

“We?” asked Geralt.

Lydial smiled. “Yes, I believe that Essea is the one, true God.”

Geralt sighed and then looked at the small clusters of elves huddled together around the cavern. 

“No offense, Lydial, but it looks like your god has forgotten about you.”

She smiled warmly at Geralt. “I admit, that is, indeed, how it appears. But I believe that this is simply a test of our faith.”

“Faith? In what exactly?”

“In His faithfulness to us. It’s a test to see if we truly believe in the promises that He has made to us – His promise to preserve us, never to forsake us. It is quite easy to follow and rely on a god when my life has no troubles. It’s quite easy to say how good he is then. Though, in truth, during those times of comfort, it’s quite common to drift from Him and forget about Him completely. But, when life is dire, when we have been crushed, when we can’t get through the storms on our own, do we despair and lose hope? Do we turn our backs on Him…or do we turn to Essea, who is there with open arms to say, ‘Rest in Me.’?”

Geralt shook his head. “Well, look around…I’d say things are dire. So, is he going to split the sky or rend the earth and bring forth some miracle to save the Aen Seidhe?” 

Lydial laughed. “That would be amazing, wouldn’t it?” She had a joyful smile on her face. “Geralt, I don’t know His plans. He could act in an obviously visible way. I would love it if He did, to see the might of His glory on display, as He used to do in the past for the Aen Seidhe. But He could also act with the lightest and most subtle of touches. Ghloirinevellienn can move the earth with just a whisper.”

“Who?”

“Sorry, that is another name for Essea.”

The witcher looked lost in thought for a moment, rubbing his hand over his beard several times. Eventually, his eyes shifted back to Lydial. 

“Okay. While this is fascinating and all, is it leading somewhere?”

Suddenly, Lydial got a very serious look on her face. “Yes, there was one female who would have refused to get pregnant?”

“Wait, you said the decree was dropped because all the elves chose to become mothers.”

Lydial shook her head. “I apologize for misleading you. All the elves available chose to get pregnant, but Chiesa went missing during that time. We were told that she left a note, indicating the she was heading south, for warmer climates and to get away from the proposed decree. But I never saw the note, and I don’t believe it. I’d never heard her speak once about leaving.”

“And you know for sure that she wouldn’t have gotten pregnant even if the decree had passed?”

Lydial nodded and smiled sadly. “Yes. She was a devout Essean…and she was unmarried. So, no, she would have never had a child voluntarily.”

Geralt had a grim look on his face. He leaned back, looked at Barcain, then Evie, before turning his eyes back to Lydial. 

“Bloody hell,” he whispered to himself.

oOo

The witcher had just finished brushing out the coat of Evie’s horse and was about to start on Roach when he heard some soft music coming closer through the woods. He then noticed Iorveth walk up and lean against the trunk of nearby tree, playing mournful notes on his flute. While the elf continued to play, Geralt tended to his mount. Eventually, the commando finished his song, and the witcher spoke up.

“I’m surprised to see you here in the mountains, Iorveth.”

“Why so, Vatt’ghern? I’m Aen Seidhe, and this is, in theory, Aen Seidhe land.”

“Just didn’t think that you’d ever stop your fight against the humans.”

“My fight – our fight - was never, specifically, against the dh’oine, Gwynbleidd.”

“Yeah? I think they’d beg to differ – especially, all of the ones you put in the grave.”

Iorveth shook his head. “Then, you understand nothing. The Aen Seidhe have never fought against anything. Our fight was always for something – for independence, for liberty; for freedom to live as we please, for freedom from the tyranny and persecution of others. It just so happens that the tyranny and persecution has always come from the dh’oine. But I’d have fought just as vigorously against the dwarves, half-lings, or any others who would trample on our rights all in the name of progress.”

“I guess that’s one perspective.”

“Indeed…and what would your perspective be?”

Geralt just shook his head as he continued to brush Roach. 

“You know what…it doesn’t matter. One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter. So…why, then, aren’t you still out there fighting for your freedom.”

After a long pause, the elf answered, “I realized that my fight, somewhere along the way, had become misguided.”

That got the witcher’s attention. Geralt stopped brushing Roach and looked at Iorveth, who at some point had hopped up into a low fork of the tree. After a moment, Geralt turned back to his horse. 

“Did you hear that, girl? An elf displaying some humility. Yeah, I know…I’m scared, too.”

“I’m glad to see that you have finally found your intellectual equal, Vatt’ghern,” Iorveth replied with his scarred smile. 

Geralt smirked back. “You know, I think Roach may be more insulted by that comment than I am. Anyway…you said you were misguided?” 

The elf nodded, his face turning serious. “Yes. It was one thing when we were fighting with the Nilfgaardians against the North during the Second War because we believed that we were helping to achieve our end goal – freedom. But, then, of course, the Nilfgaardians proved themselves betrayers, typical of all dh’oine. And, then, it made sense for us to fight again – this time with Saskia – because, again, doing so would help us gain freedom. But…you know how that ended. After Loc Muinne, I continued to fight, for a while, killing dh’oine at every opportunity. But, as I said, I eventually realized I had lost my way.”

“How so?”

“My zealousness for freedom had…somewhere along the line, turned to simple rage – rage against the dh’oine, against the world…against the unfairness of it all. It had blinded me to my original aim. Instead of fighting for freedom, I was killing simply for revenge. I realized that I had turned into the very thing that the dh’oine always said I was.”

“So, you laid down your sword and bow and came here? Just like that?”

“Yes, I wasn’t about to let the dh’oine be right about anything,” he said with a laugh, though there wasn’t much joy in it. 

“So, you came back here and…?”

“…and tried to be productive member of our little society. Used my bow to supply food instead of to murder.”

“Sounds…worthy.”

“Perhaps, but most likely futile.”

“In what way?”

“Please, Gwynbleidd, even you can see that we are doomed.” He paused and then said in a voice barely above a whisper, “I think…the Aen Seidhe are simply cursed.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say to that so he didn’t say anything. Eventually, Iorveth broke the silence with a deep sigh.  
  
“You know, Vatt’ghern, just once…just once I’d like to be on the winning side. To sleep the sleep of the righteous victor.” 

The witcher nodded his head. “Yeah…that sounds nice to me, too, Iorveth,” he replied, staring at the elf.

“Well, va faill, Gwynbleidd,” he said has he hopped out of the tree. “Till the next.” 

As he walked away, he began softly playing on his flute.

The witcher stared at the Aen Seidhe’s back until he finally disappeared into the woods. He stayed silent and still until he could no longer hear the somber notes of the elf’s dirge. 

oOo

Evie rolled over on her pallet and sighed again. She thought that must have been at least the hundredth time that she’d rolled over in the last two hours. She opened her eyes, sat up, and looked around the very dark cavern. Almost all of the campfires were out, though most still possessed glowing embers. However, there was one small fire still burning in an isolated corner of the cave, far from all the others. In front of the fire, knelt her witcher. She smiled at that thought, that he was “her” witcher. Just when did that happen? She didn’t exactly know and, frankly, she didn’t really care. She just knew that it sounded right. It was right. She continued to watch him from a distance as he brewed, mixed, and crafted whatever it was that he was creating. She noticed the smoke from his small fire drifting up higher and higher. She then realized something that she hadn’t noticed before. In the ceiling of the cave, about twenty feet above the cavern floor, there were a few holes that led to the mountain ground above and acted as vents for the smoke from the campfires to escape. She eventually stood up and began walking quietly in his direction. Once she was a few yards away, she noticed Geralt tilt his head up just a bit. She smiled at that. She knew that she’d never be able to sneak up on him.

“I can’t sleep,” she whispered. “Can I join you?”

The witcher turned his head. “Yeah, I’m done with the brewing part. It’s safe. Let me make some room for you first.”

He began transferring a variety of objects from his left side over to his right. Evie noticed that he was handling them very carefully.

She sat down on the ground next to him, both legs tucked underneath her. She leaned into him, hugging his left arm and resting her head on his shoulder.

“Geralt, please tell me you know what’s going on. Do you know what this black mist is? Have you fought something like this before? Do you know how to kill it? Is it related what we saw on the third floor?”

“That’s a lot of questions, Evie.” She could hear the mirth in his voice.

“I’m sorry. I’m just…scared. And I feel useless…because I don’t know how to help you.”

Geralt removed his arm from her grip, turned towards her, and pulled her into a hug. 

“You’ve never been married, right?” she asked.

“What? Uh…no.” The witcher was completely nonplussed by the question. “Why are you asking me that, of all things?”

“Because I can’t imagine how your wife could stay home and not lose her mind – knowing you’re out doing the stuff you do.”

Geralt immediately thought of Yennefer and some of the fights they’d had over the years. Many - directly or indirectly - revolved around that very issue. 

“Yeah, it’d be tough,” he answered. “I know I couldn’t do it if the tables were reversed.”

They didn’t say anything for a while. They just held onto one another, finding comfort in the intimacy. 

She finally broke the silence. “So, do you know what it is?”

The witcher reached up with his right hand and slowly scratched his beard-covered jaw. 

“I’m not sure, because I’ve never actually come across one myself, but I think it’s a cirnubaug.”

Evie broke their embrace and leaned back a bit, facing the witcher. “What the heck is that?”

“It’s the name Vesemir gave it. I think it’s…evil, Evie.”

“Well, yeah, it’s clearly evil, Geralt. But is it some kind of wraith or – what did you tell me that one thing was – a hym?”

He shook his head. “No, you misunderstand. I think it’s evil…incarnate.”

“What? Like, actual evil? How is that even possible?”

The witcher slightly shrugged. “I can remember Vesemir telling me about something like this once.”

“Was he able to kill it?”

“Funny, I asked him the same thing.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘You can’t kill evil, Geralt. It lives in the hearts of men. You can’t kill it any more than you could kill jealousy or pride.’”

Evie suddenly had a very displeased look on her face. “Well, that’s just great, Geralt. Why are you going in there if this thing can’t be killed?”

“Said it couldn’t be killed. Never said it couldn’t be beaten.”

Evie shook her head. “I don’t understand.” 

“Might not can kill it, but I hope to send it back to wherever it came from.”

After a moment, she asked, “Do you know where it came from, why it’s here?”

“I’ve got a hunch, but that’s all it is, right now. When Vesemir had his experience, he said that it was haunting some cultish temple, hidden out in some backwoods area. There’d been all kinds of sacrifices – virgins slaughtered, ritualistic cannibalism, that sort of thing. Vesemir hypothesized that the evil and depravity there was so concentrated that it just manifested itself physically. Became a tangible entity.”

“But how is that possible?” 

“Don’t know exactly. Vesemir didn’t either. Truth be told, if his hypothesis is true, that evil can become incarnate, then I don’t know why it doesn’t happen more often. The stuff I’ve seen…” But he didn’t finish speaking.

“Why exactly do you think this is evil, and not just some kind of wraith or other monster?”

“A couple of things. First, the corpses. I’ve never seen anything like that. They had no blood, Evie. None. It was just gone. And I didn’t see any wounds on the bodies, no puncture marks like a vampire would leave.”

“Okay, that is very weird…and frightening, but I still don’t understand why you think this monster is evil incarnate.”

“Look, Evie, I could be wrong, but I’ve just never seen anything like this before, and I’ve been doing this a long time. And it’s in no bestiary that I’ve ever read. So, I’ve asked myself. What does evil want more than anything else? It wants to kill, to destroy. It wants to destroy relationships. It wants to destroy intimacy. It wants to destroy peace and hope and dreams. Contentment and joy. But, mostly, it wants to destroy life. All of it. In my time, I’ve come across a few men that I thought were pure evil. And all they wanted to do, Evie, was watch the whole world burn. 

“So, then, I thought, what are some things associated with ‘life?’ Well, there’s blood. There’s life in our blood. And, this thing, I don’t know how, just sucks it all out. There’s also warmth associated with life. To live we need heat. Also, living things give off heat. You know something’s dead when it’s stone cold. There’s also light. To truly live healthy lives, we need to have light. And this thing…is the antithesis of all those. Did you notice that there was nothing living on that palace ground?”

Evie nodded her head.

“And there’s one more thing…and I know you felt it when you were in there.”

She nodded again. “Yeah. It made me feel like I just wanted to curl up in a ball and die.”

This time Geralt nodded his head. “This thing is like no monster that I’ve ever come across.”

She looked him in the eye, slightly shaking her head. 

“Evil incarnate…that’s just great, Geralt. I came over here because I was scared to death, thinking maybe talking to you would calm me down. Heck, I should’ve just stayed where I was.” She leaned forward to hug him again. “Please tell me that you, at least, have a plan.” 

The witcher looked around him on the ground and then whispered into Evie’s ear. 

“Yeah. That I do.” 

oOo

The witcher opened his eyes and took in a completely dark and mostly quiet cavern. He could hear running water from a stream that was somewhere nearby. He could also hear Evie’s soft breathing coming from right in front of him. She had brought her sleeping pallet next to him during the night and had finally been able to fall asleep, mostly due to pure exhaustion. 

He watched her as she slept, and he suddenly realized how tired he felt. He was supposed to feel refreshed after a meditation session, but for some reason, he felt a weariness down in his bones. He knew that for a normal human one hundred years of age was ancient, and, in truth, for a witcher, living that long was quite rare, as well. The saying, “No witcher ever died in his bed,” was only half the story. Most witchers also died young. Despite the witchers’ training and enhanced physical skills, in the end, the monsters always won. All it took was one simple mistake, one mistimed parry, one slip of the foot. Geralt knew it was rare to see a witcher live past thirty or forty years of age. Now, in theory, due to their mutated bodies, a hundred years wasn’t even middle-aged for a witcher. He didn’t know Vesemir’s exact age – the old curmudgeon never would reveal it – but Geralt knew that he had to have been at least three centuries old when he finally died last summer. So, again, in witcher years, Geralt knew that he was still fairly young. That said, he also knew it wasn’t really the years that mattered. It was the wear and tear. He realized his incredible skills were a double-edged sword. They kept him alive in dangerous encounters when most other witchers would have perished. But, the longer he stayed alive, the more punishment his body took. The stitches that he could still feel in his backside were a reminder of that. He knew that he didn’t have enough unscarred tissue on his body to make even a decent lamp shade. 

But, as weary as he was physically, he thought that he may have felt even more so mentally. The constant awareness that he was always just one step from death’s hand, the unrelenting stress of always living on the edge was, to be honest, exhausting. And while the unavoidable reach of death was true for every living thing, he knew that most folk simply chose not to think about it. He knew that for most, while they obviously knew that they’d die one day, they rarely, if ever, actually thought about that day. It was just some far-off, theoretical concept. It wasn’t real. They could keep their inevitable fate buried deep down in the psyche, where they wouldn’t have to address it, wrestle with it, actually come to terms with it. And they had that luxury, given their safe, care-free lives. But that was a luxury he didn’t have. He was forced to face head-on the prospect of his mortality on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis, it seemed. He realized that his entire life, essentially, revolved around death. The deliberate, energetic pursuit of causing it, and the equally as strong, intentional avoidance of it for himself. And that was a hard way to live. Frankly, it was a grind. 

While the darkness inside of him relished killing, there was, in fact, another part of him that, surprisingly for a witcher to say, loathed it. That part of him always preferred, as much as it depended upon him, to complete a contract in any other way besides his sword. Unfortunately, that was rarely possible. So much killing, so much death, the witcher thought to himself. There had to be more to life than just the completion of one killing contract after another, right? Then, he looked down at Evie again, sleeping peacefully. He looked at her longingly for several minutes, simply lost in the comfort of watching her tranquil face and hearing her slowly and rhythmically breathe in and out. He resisted the urge to bend down and softly kiss her cheek. He was afraid he might wake her. Finally, he nodded his head, closed his eyes, and sighed. He felt a strong desire to simply lay down behind her, take her in his arms, and fall asleep with her. But he didn’t, and he knew he wouldn’t – at least, not now. He had a job to do, and the sooner it was finished, the sooner they could leave. 

Prior to her falling asleep, they’d finally had the opportunity to discuss in detail what they thought was in the third-floor lab and what he thought the ball of fire actually was. After that, he had recommended to her that, while he was in the palace grounds later that day, she – and her grandmother and brother, if they wanted – abandon Dol Blathanna for the north. He didn’t know how Queen Enid and Rat-face would respond after he had defeated the cirnubaug, but that was the point. He just didn’t know. He had told her that he wanted her as far as way as possible just in case they next tried to demand he take on the third-floor monster or if they reneged on the deal. He didn’t want them to be able to use her against him in any way. Of course, Evie wouldn’t hear of it.

“There is absolutely no freaking way I am going to leave here while you’re still in that palace,” she had made clear to him. 

He had just looked at her with a small, rueful grin. “I knew you’d say, ‘No,’ but I still had to try.” 

Now, looking down at her, he wished he’d tried harder. With a deep sigh, the aging witcher got to his feet and walked out into the early-morning moonlight. He had his two saddle bags hanging over his left shoulder and was holding a large, obviously full bag in his left hand. Given what he was carrying, he didn’t mount Roach. He knew walking would be safer.

A half hour later, the witcher approached the palace gates. He stopped twenty feet in front of them, looking into the palace grounds. As it was still at least an hour before sunrise and with the thick fog hovering above, the grounds would have been unnavigable to a normal human. He reached into a side pouch and pulled out three witcher elixirs, one of which was Cat. He was about to drink them down, when a familiar voice broke through the silence, a voice coming from the shadows.

“Looks like you’re really gonna go through with this.”

The witcher turned his head toward the direction of the voice. He could just make out the elf’s form in the darkness. 

“It’s what I do, Iorveth.” 

The elf laughed. “Do you really need the coin that badly? Personally, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d taken your leave with the lovely Miss Evie in the middle of the night.”

“I gave my word.”

The elf laughed again, but this time, there was no mirth in it. “One’s word? You’re honestly concerned with honor, Vatt’ghern?” 

The witcher shrugged. “I don’t have much…so I’d like to keep what I’ve got.”

After a moment of silence, the elf asked, “Have you ever lost it, Gwynbleidd?”

“Iorveth, I don’t have time for this.”

“Of course, you do. The monster can wait. Honor, Geralt. Have you ever lost yours?”

The witcher sighed. “Yeah…more times than I can count.” 

The elf nodded. “And did you ever earn it back?”

He was silent a long time. Finally, he said, “No, I never have. No matter how much I’ve tried.”

The Aen Seidhe commander nodded his head slowly at Geralt several times. 

“I…unfortunately, agree, Gwynbleidd.” After a long pause, he continued. “Now, let’s go kill the creepy-crawly, shall we?” 

The witcher shook his head. “Don’t think so. I work alone.”

“And I won’t take no for an answer.”

Geralt was confused and exasperated. “What the hell for, Iorveth? You trying to earn back some lost honor?”

The elf finally stepped out of the deep shadows and into what little moonlight existed. 

“No, Geralt. We’ve already established that’s not possible.” 

“Then, why? Why go in there? You’re good, Iorveth, but this thing…it’s out of your weight class. It may be out of mine.”

“Most assuredly so.”

“Then, why?”

“Penance, Gwynbleidd. Penance.”

“Then, you need to talk to a priest, not a witcher.” After a long sigh, he asked, “Just what do you need to give penance for?”

“Not for what, Geralt. For whom.” 

The two just stared at each other for the longest time. When the witcher realized that no more information would be divulged and that he wasn’t going to be able to change the elf’s mind, he slowly shook his head, but then said, “Fine. Let me, at least, tell you what the plan is so that you don’t bugger things up eight ways to Sunday.”

Ten minutes later, the two walked into the palace ground, shutting and securing the gates behind them.


	10. Chapter 10

Book 1: The Wolf Awakens  
Chapter 10

Geralt stood motionless with his silver sword in his left hand and a bomb in his right. He was listening closely and turning his head slowly as he surveyed the entry foyer, the vapor of his exhalations condensing as soon as it hit the frigid air of the palace. The foyer didn’t look or feel any different than when he’d seen it the previous day, which was actually a good thing. At least, that variable hadn’t changed. The witcher already felt that he was walking into the situation way too blind. Truth be told, he wasn’t a hundred percent sure if what he was facing was a cirnubaug since he’d never even seen one before. In fact, it could be some new monster that no one had ever fought. And while he had a guess as to what the monster in the third-floor lab was, he wasn’t completely confident about that, either. He sensed that it was some type of wraith, but it didn’t exactly look or act like any wraith he’d ever come across. He’d never known any wraith that could cast out balls of fire. In many respects, it seemed more akin to a djinn. 

All of this unknown made him feel ill at ease. Geralt realized that he was simply too ignorant of what he was about to confront, and in the witcher profession, ignorance was a killer. That was the entire reason that witcher training didn’t consist simply of the building and honing of physical skills – weapons, Signs, strength, stamina, agility, and so forth. While the mastery of all those facets was absolutely vital if one wanted to last more than a month in the profession, they weren’t enough, in and of themselves. Just as important was knowledge, including knowledge of the enemy. It was why witchers spent hours every day in their youth slogging through different bestiaries. It was in knowing one’s enemy that one could also know its weaknesses, which would, in turn, direct the witcher in terms of strategy – what type of decoctions, oils, and bombs to use; the best time of day to attack; the appropriate methods of curse-breaking; and the like. Contrary to popular belief, witchers – or, at least, the ones with any longevity – weren’t mindless. Truth be told, their minds had to be as sharp as their blades. And, in fact, they were much more educated than the general populace. They were taught the alphabet, how to read, and mathematics, as early as possible. And all of those in multiple languages. They were also, obviously, experts in the areas of plant, animal, and monster taxonomy; alchemy; human anatomy and physiology; autopsy procedures; and much more. Geralt just hoped that all of his expertise would help him survive today. 

Before the witcher took another step, he turned his head and looked back over his shoulder to the wide-open front doors of the palace and to the portico beyond. He thought back to all the preparations that he and Iorveth had put in place in the last half hour. He shook his head as he realized just how childishly simple his plan was. But that was okay. Sometimes, the best plans were the simplest ones, or, at least, that was what he was telling himself. But he knew that, regardless of the veracity of the statement, the key to any plan – simple or complicated - was its execution, which made him remember his last words with Iorveth just a few minutes before.

“Well, good luck, Vatt’ghern. I’ll see you shortly…unless you cock it up.”

“You know, I can see why you instill such loyalty in the men you lead. Your words are truly inspiring.” That brought a smirk to the elf’s face. “And thanks, but I don’t believe in luck.”

“No? Then, how about this - May Essea keep you.” And he extended his hand.

Geralt furrowed his brow, but accepted the gesture, looking the elf in his one good eye. 

“You’re an Essean?”

A strange smile came across the elf’s face. 

“In my youth. But like most…abandoned the faith many years ago. But he is the protector God of the Aen Seidhe so I figure…it couldn’t hurt to invoke his name.”

“Yeah, but I’m not Aen Seidhe.”

“Looks like your buggered then.”

“Swell.” 

The elf squeezed Geralt’s hand a little firmer and gave it a small shake. “Then, I wish you well, Gwynbleidd.”

He nodded back. “Yeah, I wish us all well.” 

The witcher looked back toward the interior of the palace, inhaled deeply before slowly breathing out, and, then, he began walking sideways up the left stairs with his back towards the wall. He wasn’t going to bother searching the downstairs area for he was pretty sure on what floor of the palace that he’d find the cirnubaug. 

When he got to the third-floor landing, he stopped, listened again, and waited for his medallion to twitch. But he heard and sensed nothing. He still had his back to the wall so he peered around the corner to his left and looked down the long corridor – the one on the opposite side of the staircases to the corridor that housed the lab. Again, he saw nothing dangerous, just doorways on either side of the corridor. He looked forward to the corridor that was in front of him and slightly to his left. Along the left side, there were several doors, but the right side consisted of nothing but a stained-glass window that started about four feet above the floor and ran all the way towards the ceiling. He noticed then that the stained-glass window also ran along the wall in front of him about twenty feet to the right until it ended at another corridor. The Cat potion only really allowed him to see in black and white so he couldn’t discern the colors in the stained glass, but he could see that there were images in them. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if the image before him depicted several large, white boats being pushed by a great wave towards a towering cliff. He briefly wondered just what that was about. Some obscure event from Aen Seidhe history, he mused.

The witcher was pretty confident of what was behind the windows, but he wanted to verify for himself. He looked to his right, down the corridor towards the lab. He still didn’t see or sense any danger so he walked across the hallway and stood by the glass. He could see that the window wasn’t one twenty-foot-long sheet of glass. Instead, it consisted of several panes housed in individual panels. He placed his sword back in its scabbard and slowly turned a latch on the edge of one of the panels. He then pushed the latch – and window – forward, allowing the pane of glass to swing away from him. He leaned over the four-foot ledge and looked down to see the inner courtyard below him. He noticed a small, dead tree of some variety in the middle of the courtyard. There were two circular fountains on either side of it. From this height, the water in them looked pitch black. He could also see a few dead shrubs and benches scattered about the garden. 

He didn’t bother shutting the window but simply began walking down the hall towards the lab. He looked down to see that the corpses were still present. He took a cautious step forward between two of the corpses. The palace was eerily quiet, and as was his habit in these situations, he was being very deliberate in how he stepped, being careful not to scrape the heels of his boots across the floor. He winced when the cartilage in his knee decided to crunch and pop as he placed his weight down on his leg. In such silence, the pop sounded as loud as a bomb detonating. But then he shook his head as he remembered that the noise didn’t matter. He was moving with stealth – out of a habit built over decades - even though his plan didn’t call for it. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. While he actually wanted the cirnubaug to find and confront him, he wanted to ball of fire to stay safely in the lab. 

As he got closer to the lab door, his medallion twitched slightly as it had the previous day. He quickly looked behind him but saw nothing but an empty hallway. He reached the closed door of the lab and his medallion twitched again. He peered down another long hallway to his left that ran perpendicular to the one that he’d just traversed. He didn’t see the cirnubaug there either so he figured the medallion was twitching from whatever – most likely the ball of fire - was on the other side of the door. 

He had just decided to start investigating this new corridor when his medallion starting shaking violently. He immediately jumped back from the lab door as the fiery ball materialized in front of it, accompanied by its horrendous scream. Geralt turned and started sprinting as fast as he could, casting the Quen Sign as he ran. Suddenly, he felt the temperature around him drop drastically and his medallion jumped again. Fifty feet ahead, coming towards him down the corridor, was the cirnubaug. It looked just as Lydial had described it – a ten-foot tall, four-foot wide, black mist, with no corporeal form. The witcher sprinted faster, knowing that he had to get to the staircase before the cirnubaug. Otherwise, he’d be trapped in the corridor between the two monsters. It appeared as if the cirnubaug knew this, too, because it seemed to speed up and also move to its right, hoping to cut off Geralt’s access to the stairs. Still a good twenty feet away, the witcher threw the Br’er Coinin bomb in his right hand towards the fog, hoping that it would work as planned. The bomb hit the floor in front of the cirnubaug, and when it detonated, a tar-like substance exploded all over the corridor and covered the fog-like monster. The thick, sticky pitch caused the cirnubaug to slow down, but not enough. Geralt knew he’d never make the front stairs in time. In an instant, he changed plans - hoping instead to get to the corridor off to his right that ran alongside the stained-glass windows. Suddenly, he felt a ball of fire shoot over his left shoulder. It fortunately missed him, and better yet, it hit the cirnubaug. As he noticed the pitch-covered creature ignite, he cut hard to his right, and that’s when his world exploded. A ball of fire hit him squarely in the back, and though the Quen shield took most of the damage, the explosion blasted him forward and off his feet – and straight towards the stained-glass window. As his body hurled through the air, he instinctively closed his eyes and covered his face with his forearm.

The witcher flew through the pane, shards of glass exploding in all directions and then raining down towards the garden thirty feet below. Geralt opened his eyes just in time to see that he was heading for the small tree that he’d seen earlier. His upper body hit a limb, but in its deadened state, it immediately snapped and did virtually nothing to slow his momentum. An instant later, he hit another limb across his gut. This branch was slightly less brittle and slowed him, but only momentarily. He looked down as he fell the last fifteen feet towards the courtyard below. Five feet from the ground, he violently threw both of his hands downward, casting the most forceful Aard Sign that he could. The double-handed, powerful telekinetic blasts seemed to reduce his velocity just enough. As he hit the ground, he immediately buckled his knees and rolled. Despite his best efforts, he still heard a loud crack from his ankle. Fortunately, his witcher potions were still flowing with full force so while he heard the injury, he didn’t feel its full effect. 

The White Wolf, down one knee, looked up to see a smoking cirnubaug jumping from the third-floor window. But, unlike Geralt, who had fallen like a bag of bricks, it glided down on large, bat-like wings. Before it’d reached the garden floor, the witcher was up and running out of the courtyard towards the front doors of the palace. He looked back to see that the cirnubaug had lost its wings and was now just a blob of black tar moving in his direction and moving fast. As Geralt ran towards the exit, he could see that the sun had risen. The outer palace garden was still dark and misty, but enough ambient light was coming through that he knew that Iorveth would now be able to adequately see. The witcher sprinted as fast as he could and, as he reached the threshold of the front door, he leapt as high and as far as he could. As soon as he had taken flight, he cast an Yrden Sign downward and then kept flying upward and outward. He cleared the entire portico entrance and landed halfway down the steps. His weakened ankle gave way as he landed, and he tumbled down the rest of the steps, ending up on his back on the crushed-shell pathway of the palace ground. 

He looked up quickly, hoping and expecting to see and hear a blinding and deafening explosion. But it was deathly quiet except for his slightly heavy breathing. The cirnubaug had stopped at the threshold of the palace doors. Though it had no face or eyes as far as Geralt could discern, it seemed, to the witcher, to be looking out at and inspecting the portico. Geralt got to his feet and faced the cirnubaug. His eyes darted quickly to his right to see Iorveth, hidden behind one of the large, portico columns, an arsenal of special witcher bombs at his feet. The elf was peeking around the column, trying to get a glimpse of the creature at the front door. 

“Come on, you son of a bitch, I’m right here,” the witcher said in a low voice as he looked back at the black monster. 

But the cirnubaug still didn’t move forward. Instead, it began to turn around. Or, at least, that’s what it looked like to Geralt. It then began moving back toward the interior of the palace.

The witcher ran forward, up two or three steps. “No, you bastard, this way!” he yelled.

Suddenly, Geralt heard the now-familiar, hideous scream from the ball of fire. It had arrived from the third-floor hallway and was now in the foyer on the other side of the cirnubaug. It began shooting its fiery projectiles at the tar-covered monster, keeping it from moving back into the palace. With each fireball landed, the cirnubaug was pushed back closer and closer to the front door and towards the portico. Just as the witcher was starting to feel hopeful, he noticed the ball of fire begin to dim and that its fiery projectiles were coming with less frequency and less force. The cirnubaug was near the threshold of the door, but it was no longer be pushed back any further. In fact, it appeared as if it moved slightly back toward the interior again.

That’s when the events seemed to slow down, everything moving in slow-motion for the witcher. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. His eyes shifted to his right to see Iorveth coming out from behind the column and running down the right side of the portico toward the front door, his long, curved knife in his right hand. He sprinted past the larger-than-life statues of the elven warriors of old, the tail of his crimson bandana flying behind him.

Geralt yelled, “Iorveth, no!”

But it was too late. The elven commander leapt ten feet from the front door. He landed on the “back” of the cirnubaug, driving the blade of his knife deep into the pitch covered monster. The momentum of the elf crashing into it caused the monster – with Iorveth stuck to its back – to stagger to the left. The elf kicked his legs out to the left, catching the door frame with the balls of his feet. He then pushed backwards with all his strength. Geralt watched helplessly as Iorveth and the cirnubaug fell towards the portico floor. Geralt didn’t wait to see them hit the floor, instead, turning and diving towards the palace ground. 

As the cirnubaug landed, it triggered a dozen trip-wired traps. Instantly, Fosfurite bombs shot toward the creature and the elf, exploding on and around them. Fosfurite bombs that burned hotter than anything the witcher knew of, the gel-like substance capable of burning through metal. Bombs, whose components were so volatile, that he rarely, if ever, crafted them and absolutely refused to carry them on himself or in Roach’s saddlebags. The witcher looked up to see blinding white light shining from the middle of the portico. It was so bright that he was unable to look directly at it. He quickly ran to his right to the column where Iorveth had been hiding before. He picked up a Fosfurite bomb in each hand and turned back toward the front doors. The light had diminished a bit, enough to see that while Iorveth had pretty much been vaporized, the cirnubaug was still moving, though just slightly. He threw the two bombs at the creature and then, immediately, picked up two more and threw them, as well. As the creature burned in a bright white flame, Geralt did his best to see what was happening. He still couldn’t look directly at the light, but he shielded his eyes with his hand so that he could look a few feet above the light. He saw what appeared to be thick, black ash floating upward, and as it continued to drift higher, the ash just seemed to eventually disintegrate and disappear. 

After a couple of minutes, the flame subsided, and the witcher limped toward the area of the portico located just in front of the palace doors. There was a hole in the white marble, over two feet deep in some spots and roughly ten feet in diameter. The nearby doors and columns were damaged as well. But nothing remained of the cirnubaug. And nothing remained of Iorveth either – not a stitch of his clothing or even the blade from his knife. The witcher sighed deeply and closed his eyes as he remembered the last actions of the elven freedom fighter. He swore that, as he’d watched Iorveth and the cirnubaug fall downward toward their destruction, he’d seen Iorveth’s hideous smile plastered across his face. He kept his eyes closed for a few more moments, just remembering his friend’s scarred smile, remembering the remorse that was clearly evident in both his voice and his haunted eyes in their last conversations, remembering the mournful dirge that he’d played on his flute just last night. Geralt shook his head at the realization that he considered Iorveth a friend. He wasn’t sure exactly when that had happened, but he had no doubt of that fact now. Eventually, the witcher opened his eyes once more.

“Damn it,” the witcher stated simply and full of sadness. 

He stood there a moment longer, staring down at the portico, but, then, he peered over his shoulder and noticed the dark mist fading quickly from the sky above. As he turned his back to the front doors, his eyes scanned downward, taking in the palace grounds below him as it was slowly bathed in the rays from the morning sun. The witcher limped down the steps of the portico towards the large fountain and out of the shadow of the palace. He turned around and looked up towards the sun that had just emerged over the tallest peaks of the Blue Mountains. He closed his eyes and held his hands open, his arms slightly out to his sides. He stood there, silent and still, letting the sun warm his face and body, chasing away the cold and the bitter despair. After some time, the witcher dropped his arms back down to his sides and opened his eyes. As he looked back up toward the portico, he whispered to himself. 

“May Essea keep you, Iorveth. May he keep you.” 

oOo

Evie came awake suddenly in the dark cavern. She reached her hand out to her side but couldn’t feel Geralt kneeling next to her. 

“Damn it,” she said under her breath. And then she realized that, after less than two weeks, she was already picking up some of his more common sayings. She’d also caught herself saying “Swell” multiple times in the last few days. That actually made her smile, until she remembered the matter at hand.

She scrambled to her feet and moved over to Geralt’s fire. She pulled the knife from the scabbard on her thigh and stirred up and blew on the embers within. Slowly, the fire grew enough that she could see her surroundings. She grabbed the torch that Geralt had laid out for her the previous evening and lit it in the fire. She slowly and carefully made her way back to where Lydial and Barcain were sleeping. She knelt down and shook them both by their shoulders.

“Wake up,” she hissed at them. 

They both woke instantly. 

“What is it, Evangeline?”

“Geralt’s gone,” she said. 

“All right. Let’s go down,” replied Barcain.

But Evie didn’t wait for them. As fast as she could, she exited the cavern and walked out into the woods. From the light of her torch, she could still see Roach hobbled nearby. She immediately started running towards the palace grounds. Fifteen minutes later, sweating and out of breath, Evie stood in front of the closed, palace gates. She could tell that dawn was approaching because when she looked away from the palace grounds, her eyes could pick up the ambient light in the sky. But, then, she turned back and faced the gates, shrouded in the dark fog. All she could do now was wait.

oOo

Geralt sat on the palace ground, leaning back against the edge of the large fountain, with his saddle bags next to him. He’d taken a shot of White Honey in order to clear the effects of the witcher elixirs he’d consumed less than half an hour before. Now that the sun was up, he definitely wanted to neutralize the Cat potion. Immediately after taking the White Honey, he downed a healing potion for his ankle. He looked up through the front doors of the palace to see the ball of fire still floating in the foyer. He’d seen it earlier, but since it didn’t seem to be moving – either to flee or to attack – Geralt decided that he’d take care of his ankle before approaching it. The witcher slowly got to his feet and limped up the steps towards the foyer. He stopped as he reached the front doors with his hands empty of any weapons. He looked at the ball of light. He didn’t know why, but he got the sense that it was waiting on him. He finally broke the silence.

“I don’t know what you are – though, I’ve got a good idea. I’d like to help you,” the witcher stated.

After a moment, the glowing ball began to slowly float upwards towards the third floor.

“Well, it didn’t attack, so I guess that’s a ‘yes,’” Geralt said to himself before ascending the stairs to his right.

When the witcher arrived at the third-floor landing, he noticed the ball was there, apparently waiting on him. Geralt looked around. With the sun now up and shining through the plate glass windows and the other windows located around the palace, he could easily see the damage done to the third-floor hallway. Shattered glass, sticky pitch, and scorch marks were everywhere. Combined with the damage that was done to the portico, he knew that if Queen Enid decided to charge him for all the damages, then he wouldn’t end up with a single crown left over from the contract. But the witcher just shrugged at that thought as he watched the floating fire-ball slowly move down the corridor towards the lab. Once it reached the door, it vanished. Geralt assumed that it was now simply on the other side. Upon reaching the door himself, he exhaled deeply and reached out for the handle. He turned it but paused before pushing the door open. He was very much dreading what he thought he’d find on the other side. He then swallowed, opened the door, and stepped into the lab.

oOo

A small crowd – pretty much the entire Aen Seidhe community - was waiting for the witcher just outside of the palace gates. In the last half hour, the emotions in the group had run the gamut. Initially, there was a mixture of hope and worry. But the longer that the wait continued, the more that the hope began to vanish and the worry turned to fear. As they heard the sounds of shattering glass and exploding bombs, the fear became full-blown panic. And, then, finally, when the fog began to lift, replaced with the light and warmth of the sun, the sense of hope and anticipation returned in full force. They all expected the witcher to soon show himself, to announce the contract complete. But, five, then ten, then twenty minutes passed without any sight of him. Eventually, Evie, Barcain, Lydial and a few others discussed going in after him. Evie would have already entered the palace grounds to search for the witcher except for the fact that her brother and grandmother were physically restraining her. Finally, the palace gate opened up, and the Butcher of Blaviken walked out. Evie was about to rush into his arms until she saw his face. To anyone else, he probably didn’t look all that different than he normally did. But she was starting to understand the subtle nuances of Geralt of Rivia, and she could easily see the rage in his features. As he walked up to Queen Enid and Rat-face, the rest of the Aen Seidhe crowded around them.

“As you can see, I’ve dealt with the black fog. However, there’s something else inside – on the third floor. If you want it gone, then I need the both of you,” he said in a cold growl while pointing at the two of them. “And Nuremel, too.” 

He then turned to the rest of the crowd.

“I’ll also need anyone who…was…a mother at some point.”

Evie immediately stepped forward. “I’ll help – whatever you need.”

Geralt briefly had a look of confusion and surprise on his face, but it was quickly replaced with anger again. 

“Very well. Let’s go,” he commanded as he turned and began walking back towards the palace. 

“I don’t take orders from a vatt’ghern, and I certainly won’t be going in there with you.”

Geralt stopped and turned around. He didn’t even have to ask who’d said it. He looked directly at Rat-face and nodded his head.

“You know what? You’re right. I’ve got a better idea. I think the entire community needs to come up the third floor to see just what its leaders have been doing.” 

Geralt suddenly saw the normally snide look leave the Rat’s face to be replaced with fear.

“I forbid it,” stated Queen Enid. Though she did not speak loudly, her voice held authority, and everyone clearly heard her. Everyone’s eyes then automatically shifted toward the witcher.

“Is that right?” responded the White Wolf. “Well, I could demand it – because I know that you desperately want what’s in there. And you know you can’t defeat what’s guarding them. Only I can get rid of it.” He had the slightest of smiles on his face, but it was anything but friendly.

Queen Enid, carrying herself with the grace that fit her station, slowly walked away from the crowd and towards the palace gates. She then turned and faced the witcher.

“A word…in private, Gwynbleidd?” she asked.

As Geralt approached her, he noticed that she was smiling – a smile that looked very similar to the one she’d just received from him. 

“You’re in over your head, Witcher. You see, knowledge is power, and I know you.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed. You do realize that I have a long history with several members of your little harem, and every time anyone of them ever spoke about you, I listened. I listened to what was said and to what wasn’t. So, I have your measure, Witcher, and I know your weakness.”

Geralt didn’t say anything, but inside he cursed. She’d apparently called his bluff.

The sorceress smiled. “Oh, yes. Your tender heart towards the innocent and helpless. So, I know you want to save what’s in the lab as much as I do. And you know that they are only being sustained by my magic. Without me, they will all perish, and…I don’t give them much longer. So, it appears that we are at a standstill.”

After a moment, the witcher spoke. “Fine. It’ll get out anyway. They’ll all know what you’ve done…after I tell them.”

“Is that so?” The beautiful sorceress looked up at the blue skies and then back down at the monster-slayer. “How long do you plan to stay with us, Geralt…here in our little community? I doubt for much longer. Again, I know you. You don’t stay anywhere for long. And, after you leave, it would be such a shame if anything happened to little Evie’s family. I know that she would be so heartbroken. But that happens. There are so many dangers here in these mountains.”

The witcher clenched his jaws tightly but didn’t reply. At that point, he didn’t know what he would say if he did open his mouth. He knew he could strike down the witch right then and there before she even had a chance to utter a single spell. But he also knew that there’d be deep and multiple repercussions if he did so – especially to innocent lives.

Queen Enid continued. “Regardless, even if they do find out our little secret, in time, when they all see that what I’ve done was necessary and that I helped save our race, they’ll understand it and even appreciate it. They’ll understand that sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the betterment of society.”

The witcher shook his head. “Tell that to Chiesa. It’s easy to spout that drivel until it’s you that’s the sacrifice.”

“Please. Chiesa is an Essean. She knows well the honor of the sacrificial life.”

“That is some seriously twisted logic. There’s only honor if the sacrifice is voluntary, which it wasn’t.”

Francesca Findabair shook her head, a look of mock pity on her face. 

“I envy you, Vatt’ghern, with your simple life and your naïve ideals. Oh, yes, I can see the contempt in your eyes, the judgment you have for me, but you’ve never sat on my throne. You’ve never had the fate of an entire race in your hands. You’ve never felt the weight of that responsibility. Until you’ve held a position of authority, you’ll never understand. So, spare me your drivel and go back to your insignificant life.”

The two stared at each for several moments before the witcher finally said, “You know what? That’s a great idea. So, let’s just get this over with. But we’re going to need Rat-face and Nuremel.”

“And why is that?”

A cruel smirk crossed his face. “You know, I would explain it to you, but it’s beneath you. Just an insignificant, little curse for a simple, little witcher. Too simple for you to even understand. So, you’ll just have to trust me.” 

He then turned and walked over to Evie and whispered in her ear. After a moment, she stepped back, looked him in the eye, and nodded. They, then, began walking towards the palace.

oOo

Evie gasped when she saw the damage to the portico. She turned to Geralt, but he just whispered, “Later,” so she nodded her head. 

She and Geralt were intentionally walking behind the three Aen Seidhe. 

As they all started up the first staircase, Rat-face turned to look behind them. 

“Why are we leading? You’re the professional,” he spat with contempt.

“You know where the lab is. You don’t need me to lead. And you’re right - I am a professional, which means I know a monster when I see it. I’d rather have a Nilfgaardian at my back than you, Rat-face.”

Before he could retort, his queen beat him to it. “Just shut your mouth, Allendor. You’re making this more difficult for everyone.”

There was venom in his eyes, but he simply stated, “Yes, Your Highness.”

As hard as she was trying not to be, Evie was absolutely enthralled as she walked through the palace. Her eyes were darting from the paintings on the walls, to the hanging tapestries, to the images in the stain-glassed windows, to the suits of armor lining the staircases and hallways. She was soaking in all of the history. The only other time she’d been inside these walls was the day before. And, obviously, it had been black as night then, and she’d had more pressing things on her mind. In all the years of visiting her Nain, Evie had never been allowed into the palace. Half-breed “mutts” like her never would have been invited in. In fact, it wasn’t until her last visit to her grandmother – after her grandmother was living near the armory, that she’d ever even been allowed into the palace grounds. But, now, walking through the Aen Seidhe palace in the light of day, the historian in her was definitely thrilled. But she knew that they were still on a mission – Geralt had made it clear that there might still be danger – so she was doing her best to temper her academic enthusiasm and focus on the task at hand. If she needed a reminder of the gravity of the situation, seeing all of the damage on the third floor drove the point home. At that point, no one, not even Rat-face, was making any comments about anything. The closer they came to the door of the third-floor lab, the more tense everyone seemed to become. 

As they reached the closed door, they all naturally stepped aside for Geralt. Evie felt him grab her by the hand and lead her forward, but she noticed that he made sure that he was facing the three Aen Seidhe the entire time. 

She was standing directly in front of the door, with Geralt behind her. She heard him address the three elves, “Don’t do anything that I don’t tell you to do. Got it?”

Nuremel suddenly spoke up. “Are you sure this is safe?”

“It will be as long as you do exactly as I say. Understood?”

The elf nodded back.

The witcher then spoke over his shoulder to Evie. “Open the door slowly, and walk in slowly.”

Evie reached forward and opened the wooden door, and just like before, it squeaked on its hinges. She stepped into the lab and immediately noticed the floating ball of light in the middle of the room. However, she also noticed that the fiery flames that had been surrounding it the first time she’d seen it looked a bit muted.

She suddenly felt jostled from behind, and she turned to see that Geralt was walking in backwards followed by the three elves. She quickly turned back to face the ball and noticed that, upon the elves entering the room, the fire surrounding it grew brighter and hotter. She took note to remember that fact. Then, she heard Geralt’s voice.

“You two stay right there and don’t move. Don’t do anything. Evie, Your Highness, follow me.”

He then took the lead, walking sideways, never fully taking his eyes off the elves. Evie was following him but, then, her eyes skipped past him to see where he was leading her. And she gasped at what she saw. Behind a glowing magical barrier was a female elf laid out on a table. She was completely nude and was missing parts of her body – her left arm from the elbow down, her right foot, a few fingers from her right hand. She also had an eighteen-inch incision that ran from her sternum down to just above her pubis. There were two other long incisions, at the top and bottom of the vertical incision, that ran perpendicular to it. It looked as if the body had two flaps on its abdomen that could be opened and closed like cabinet doors. She had an assortment of tubes running from multiple parts of her body, all connected to machines that Evie had never seen before. She assumed that the machines were all magical. Not only was there some kind of barrier surrounding the elf, the table, and all of the machines, but it also appeared, to Evie, as if there was some kind of glow surrounding the elf, herself.

Finally, the three of them and the fiery ball were all positioned in front of the mutilated elf.

“Geralt?” Evie sobbed. “Chiesa?” 

He nodded. Then, he spoke, the rage in his voice unmistakable.

“Just so that we’re all clear. This floating ball is a wraith, of sorts. It contains all of the souls of all of the fetuses that have died during your experiments, and I don’t need to ask how many there were. I can see how many still-living fetuses there are in the jars, and I have a good estimate of how long Chiesa’s been missing. So, I can do the math. And I don’t even want to know how you chose to dispose of those that died. That would…you now what? Let’s just move on. I can’t speak for the cluster of souls, but, personally, I’d like nothing more than to bleed all three of you pieces of shit out. That’s what you deserve. However, the souls are, apparently, willing to forgive. I think what they want more than anything else is to simply preserve life. They want to preserve the lives that are in those jars, and we all know that we, unfortunately, need you” - at this point he nodded at Francesca - “to do so. But they also want to make sure that this horror-show ends, which means giving Chiesa a proper burial so that you sick deviants can’t keep extracting her eggs. That’s the first step in sending the souls on. I’ll get to steps two and three after we’ve taken care of that.”

He then turned to face the queen. “I could’ve deactivated your barrier with a dimeritium bomb, but I didn’t want to risk interfering with the magic on the jars. So, I need you to lower the barrier. Now.”

Queen Enid started chanting a complicated incantation and waving her hands about. While she was doing this, Geralt pulled a metal bowl from inside his armor. He stepped towards Evie, who was visibly trembling, her eyes very wet. 

“I need your tears.”

“What?”

“I need the tears of a grieving mother. But the tears…they have to come from you specifically remembering your child. Do you think you can do that?”  
  
Immediately, Evie started bawling. Geralt put the bowl in her hands. 

“Baby, don’t wipe your eyes, okay? Let the tears fall straight into the bowl.”

Evie couldn’t answer. She turned away from the others so that they couldn’t see her grieve, and she just continued crying, tears streaming down her face. The sobs were wracking her body, making her shoulders shake.

Geralt turned back toward the others with his jaws clenched. He was doing his best to control his breathing, but the fury inside of him was about to consume him. It was taking everything in him not to draw his sword and strike them all down. He looked at Chiesa to see that the barrier was down and that Francesca had her hands about six inches above the body, moving them back and forth from her head to her feet. Eventually, Francesca stopped, lowered her hands to her side and stepped away from the body. The witcher didn’t need to bother with checking Chiesa’s pulse. He could hear that her heart had stopped. He then nodded at the sorceress.

“Okay. Now, remove the tubes and find a sheet or shroud and wrap her in it.”

The witcher stood beside Evie while Francesca was wrapping Chiesa’s corpse. Evie was still crying but no longer sobbing. He reached up and put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a tender squeeze, but still not taking his eyes off the others. Once the sorceress finished preparing the body, Geralt spoke to Rat-face and Nuremel. 

“Pick her up, gently. We’re going to bury her in the courtyard.” 

Rat-face began to protest, until the ball of fire lit up brightly, flames igniting around it. 

“I told you that you’d live if you do exactly as I say…but I actually hope you don’t. I’d love to see them fry your ass.”

That shut Rat-face up, and he and Nuremel grabbed the corpse and began carrying it out of the lab.

“And I’d recommend that you give her the utmost respect,” the witcher advised as they walked out the door, with the ball of fire right behind them.

They all eventually made it down to the courtyard. Evie was holding the bowl with her tears in front of her. Once they had arrived, Geralt spoke again to the two male elves.

“Go find two shovels. You’re going to dig her grave.”

He could see that Rat-face wanted to protest, but Nuremel just nodded his head and left the courtyard. Shortly thereafter, Rat-face followed him.

“And you,” said Geralt, looking at Queen Enid. “I need you to find a censer and some incense.”

oOo

Two hours later, Chiesa was finally buried. The other three stood at a distance, but Geralt, Evie and the cluster of souls stood at the gravesite. 

Geralt turned to Evie. “Do you want to say anything?”

Evie nodded her head. 

“Chiesa, I didn’t know you, but you were obviously an elf of great strength and conviction. And you clearly loved Essea…as evidenced by your desire to obey him so. I hope that you are at peace and that you will be with your children soon. May Essea keep you and them.” 

Geralt didn’t think he could add anything to that so he didn’t. He turned and spoke to the three Aen Seidhe elves. 

“Okay. Step one was the long part. The next two will be quick.” 

He pulled out the censer that Francesca had found for him. 

“Breaking curses requires sacrifices and involves rituals. Step two is that we need to burn the tears of a grieving mother. That’s what the censer is for.”

He then lit the tear-soaked incense within the censer. He had poured Evie’s tears over the incense as soon as the queen had brought it to him two hours previously. As it began to smoke, he started to slowly walk the perimeter of Chiesa’s grave, the cluster of souls floating above it.

“May these tears of grief bring you peace. They are a sign of a mother’s love. May these tears of grief bring you peace. They are a sign of a mother’s love…” 

The witcher continued to walk around the grave, repeating himself for several minutes. Eventually, he walked over to the three elves. 

“Step three involves you two.”

Geralt stared at the two male elves. As obstinate as Rat-face still appeared, Nuremel looked just as broken. 

“What do we have to do?” Nuremel asked.

“Typically, breaking a curse like this requires the shedding of blood, meaning your life.” The elf just nodded. “However, I believe that they are willing to pass on through another means. That said, it may be an even more difficult sacrifice than your life. It’s the sacrifice of your pride. Just ask them for forgiveness, with a genuinely contrite heart.” 

Nuremel looked at the witcher in surprise. The witcher nodded back. 

Nuremel slowly approached the cluster of souls, which was still hovering above Chiesa’s grave. He knelt down on both knees and lowered his head. Evie could see that he was speaking but she couldn’t hear his words. Eventually, he raised his head and looked at the floating ball in front of him. After a minute with nothing happening, Nuremel looked over at the witcher with a confused face.

“Is that all?”

“Looks like it. I’d say you’re good. You’re up, Rat-face.”

The white-haired elf tentatively walked towards the grave. As he stood there awkwardly, Evie reached out and grabbed the witcher’s hand. While he did squeeze her hand back, he didn’t turn to look at her, his eyes never leaving the scene in front of him. They watched as the elf hesitantly knelt before the grave. He lowered his head and clasped his hands in front of him. Evie saw him moving his lips. When he finished, he slowly raised his head and looked at the cluster of souls in front of him. As Evie watched him turn his head towards them, with a small smile on his face, a ball of fire suddenly shot straight into his body, and then another, then a third and fourth. Evie jumped at the sight and then turned her head away. 

Eventually, after Rat-face’s screams had ceased, she looked up at Geralt. He had a completely unreadable expression on his face, but his eyes still hadn’t left the smoldering corpse. Then, his eyes shifted to his left. Evie felt him squeeze her hand so she looked, too. She noticed the flames around the cluster of souls completely extinguish. And, then, with a sudden pop, it vanished. 

“Looks like they weren’t convinced of his sincerity,” commented Evie.

“Yeah. Who could’ve guessed? Rat-face didn’t have a broken and contrite heart, after all.” 

The witcher then turned to Francesca, who had been staring at the scene, as well.

“Too bad your magic is still needed. Cause I really would have liked to have seen you on your knees, asking for forgiveness. I have no doubt how that would have ended.” 

The sorceress smiled at the witcher. “Yes, I’m sure you would like to see me on my knees.” 

Then, her eyes moved towards Evie and connected with hers, and her smile widened. She then looked back at the witcher. 

“But that won’t happen…ever. I do so love my magic.” 

She laughed lightly, as if she had absolutely no cares in the world. 

oOo

Evie stood at the entrance of the large cavern, the same large cavern where she’d slept the night before. It looked drastically different in the light of day. Through the half dozen holes in the ceiling of the cavern, bright beams of light shone down and illuminated the cavern floor. Evie thought it was beautiful. To her, they looked like waterfalls, except that they were composed of rays of sunlight instead of drops of water. Her eyes scanned the cavern back and forth until she found what she was searching for. On the far side of the cave, near one of the “waterfalls” of illumination, she saw her witcher. He was on his knees in meditation, several feet outside of the direct sunlight. He was just close enough to the light, though, that he wasn’t completely in the shadows, just close enough that she had been able to locate him, to see his face.

Evie knew something was wrong. She had sensed it in the courtyard. And as they were walking down the steps of the portico, Geralt had informed her that he couldn’t remain there, in the palace grounds, a minute longer. He didn’t want to be anywhere near the sorceress or her palace, and he had left immediately. She had stayed a short while, just to let Lydial and Barcain know that she was okay and to answer some of their questions, and then she’d come looking for him.

She started walking slowly towards the witcher. When she was a good thirty feet away, she saw him open his eyes, and she stopped. They were both still – her standing, him kneeling – for several seconds, just staring into each other’s eyes. Finally, she noticed a slight nod of the witcher’s head, and she starting walking towards him again. As she walked, she noticed that his eyes were on her the entire time. She passed through the “waterfall” of sunlight and then took a final few steps until she was standing before him. And then she knelt. 

“Hi,” he said, but there was no smile on his face.

Evie grinned at his greeting. 

“Hi, yourself,” she said back.

She then noticed that Geralt couldn’t maintain eye contact with her. It seemed that he was trying to, but he couldn’t hold her gaze for more than a second before he’d have to look away. 

“Geralt, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

The monster-slayer slowly shook his head. 

“I’m here for you. I’ll listen if you want to talk about it.”

A small, sad smile crossed the witcher’s face, but his head was slightly lowered, eyes searching the cavern floor. 

“Okay,” he said as he nodded his head. To Evie, it seemed that he was talking to himself more than to her. He then raised his head, his eyes connecting with hers.

“Do you remember, two days ago, I told you that I sensed that I had a darkness in me?” 

She nodded.

“I was wrong. I think I know what it actually is now.” But he didn’t continue. Evie saw him swallow.

“Yes?” she prompted.

Geralt looked upward and exhaled deeply. “Can you remember how being in that palace made you feel?”

She nodded. “It was awful. I felt hopeless and full of despair and just…ugly inside.”

“Yeah. And you were never even in its presence. Trust me, it was worse the nearer it was.”

“Okay?” She still wasn’t sure where he was going with this.

“But, if I’m honest…while I could sense it, it just didn’t affect me much.” Then, he paused. “Cause that’s what I feel every day.”

“What are trying to say, Geralt?”

He looked her in the eyes. “What I’ve got inside, Evie…is pure evil. I know that now, after today. The same thing that brought that cirnubaug forth lives inside of me.” 

Evie knew that there was no sense arguing with him so she didn’t. She just reached forward and touched his face with her hand. 

“Okay,” she stated simply. “Even so, I’m still here for you.”

“How can you say that? Do you want to know just how evil I am, Evie?”

She swallowed but still said, “Okay. Tell me.”

Geralt shook his head. “I wanted to butcher all three of those…elves in the courtyard.”

Evie sighed. “Geralt, that doesn’t make you evil. That makes you normal. Hell, after what I saw in that lab, I wanted all three of them burnt to a crisp, too. I wanted them to pay for what they’d done.”

He shook his head again. “It was more than just wanting justice, Evie. When I watched those souls forgive Nuremel, I was angry – at them. Even though, really, I had no right to be. If the souls were willing to forgive, how was that any business of mine? And when I watched Rat-face burn, what I was feeling wasn’t the satisfaction of justice being done. You know what I felt? Jealousy, envy. Cause I wanted to be the one that made him burn. I wanted to gut that Rat-faced son-of-a-bitch and watch him bleed out. And I still do.”

The witcher was looking into her eyes now, waiting for her response, just waiting for her to get up and run screaming out of the cave and away from the monster that he was. Never to return. After several long moments, she finally responded. 

“Okay,” she said nodding her head. “The darkness that’s in you may be pure evil…but, Geralt, listen to me closely, that does not mean that you are pure evil. There is a big difference. I saw the rage that was on your face when you came out of the palace this morning – the righteous rage after seeing the atrocity that had taken place in that lab. A purely evil man wouldn’t have even cared. Hell, a purely evil man wouldn’t even care if he was purely evil. So…if you can’t see that difference, the difference between an utterly evil cirnubaug and the man – flawed that he may be - that’s in front of me right now, then…you’re simply not using the logical, rational part of that brain of yours – the part that you always say you want to use.” 

By the time she finished, she was speaking with a deep conviction in her voice. After a pause, she continued in a softer tone. 

“It sounds like the evil that’s inside of you wants to convince you that you’re nothing but rotten, to make you believe that you’re worthless. And do you know why? So that you’ll stop fighting it. So that it can then reign free. But no matter how much it beats you up and makes you doubt yourself, and trust me, in the last week, I’ve seen just how much it does…despite that, you’re still fighting it. The fact that you’re talking to me about it right now and that it obviously upsets you so is proof that you’re fighting it. And that’s one of the many things that draws me to you. That you never stop fighting it.”

Then, the smallest of smiles crossed Evie’s face. 

“And, you know what? So what? Even if a part of you is pure evil, so what?” 

“So what?” the witcher asked, his brows furrowed.

“Yes. You’ve already told me that you believe God has put his goodness inside of you in order to fight it, right?” 

The witcher nodded. 

“Okay, then. Then, this…revelation that you have pure evil in you should just make you grateful.”

At that, the monster-slayer almost laughed. “Grateful? I’m supposed to be grateful?”

Evie looked at the witcher for several moments and then gave a quick nod. 

“If you’re not hungry, and someone offers you a meal, you may be grateful for their kindness, but probably not too much. But, if you haven’t eaten in weeks, and the hunger inside of you is consuming you…your awareness of it is at the forefront of your mind at all times…if it’s all you can think about…and, then, someone offers you that same meal…just how grateful for their kindness would you be then? I’d say very.” 

Evie watched Geralt’s face as he was staring back at her, but she couldn’t really discern what she was seeing in his eyes. Finally, she saw the faintest of smiles come to his lips.

“So, you’re saying…I should actually be thankful that in the last few days I have become more and more aware of the dark and evil parts inside of me. Because that knowledge, then, makes me - or, at least, _should_ make me more grateful to God for showing me favor, for the fact that he has placed his goodness inside of me in order to fight it?” 

He and Evie looked at each other for a moment. Then, he nodded his head. 

“That actually makes some sense.”

Evie smiled back at him. “Yeah. A wise man once told me that more logic never hurt anyone.” 

She looked at the witcher, who had a strange look on his face. 

“Thank you, Evie.” And then he pulled her into a hug. “Thank you.”

oOo

_Vizima_

“What news, Malek?” asked Emperor Emhyr.

“I have received word that Miss VanderBosch is currently at the elven palace in the Blue Mountains east of Dol Blathanna.

Though he didn’t show it, the emperor was filled with hope and excitement from hearing that proclamation. 

“Your plan?”

“We have a large battalion of men in Vengerberg. I will have the sorceresses teleport me and a few of my men there. From there, a hard, single-day’s ride should then allow us to reach our objective. I am unsure if the Aen Seidhe will feel compelled to protect her or not. Regardless, I estimate that fifty soldiers will be enough.”

The Emperor grabbed a parchment from his desk and wrote out several lines quickly. He then rolled the parchment up, poured warm wax on the edge, and, as it began to cool, sealed it with his signet ring. 

“Make it a hundred,” ordered Emhyr as he handed Malek the parchment. 

He then picked up a small bell and rang it. Immediately, the Emperor’s chamberlain entered. 

“Mererid, summon the sorceresses.” 


	11. Chapter 11

Book 1: The Wolf Awakens  
Chapter 11

_Vizima_

“I know it may beneath you, Malek, but could you deign to inform us why we are being relegated to nothing but glorified couriers, teleporting soldiers to and fro? Clearly, our powers could be put to greater use than just this,” spoke Philippa Eilhart with the customary condescension in her voice.

Malek, five of his men, and the three sorceresses were in a private chamber in the Vizima palace. Malek and the sorceresses had just left the Emperor’s chambers, the three having received their orders to simply transport the six soldiers to Vengerberg. They were told nothing else, which caused fury to boil within the sorceress from Montecalvo. 

A year had passed, and it still irked Philippa to no end to play the subservient role to both Emhyr and now to Malek. To be given orders instead of to give them. To be forced to ask questions instead of answering them. This was all beneath her, especially given that she had more raw power and more experience than either of those men. The three-hundred-year-old sorceress was accustomed to being the one making the plans and giving directives. She decided, then and there, that she’d be damned if the turn of the calendar would still find her under any man’s authority. 

Malek truly didn’t mind being questioned by his immediate subordinates regarding his plans as long as it was done in the right manner. As long as it was done respectfully and not in front of large groups. For that undermined authority and caused chaos. And that was unacceptable. There was a time and place for everything, including questioning a superior in order to understand better a mission’s details. But, in Malek’s mind, Philippa had just breached proper protocol. 

He looked at his five men and made a motion with his head. They all immediately left the chamber. Malek then turned to face Philippa. Despite her wearing high heels, he towered at least a foot above her. His left hand rested on the pommel of his sword, located on his left hip. His right hand dropped down and hung next to a knife strapped to his right thigh. Though, to Fringilla’s eyes, it was the strangest knife she had ever seen. This wasn’t the first time that she had noticed it. The scabbard was not flat, as was the custom. It was rounded and a bit bulky, as if the blade inside was round-shaped, as well. The handle of the knife was also quite unusual. Instead of the hilt running in line with the blade, this handle was connected to the metal portion of the weapon in a perpendicular manner. Before she could ponder on the weapon further, her attention was brought back to the conversation by Malek’s voice.

“Miss Yennefer, Miss Vigo, if you could excuse us, please? I believe that Miss Eilhart would like a word in private.”

The two sorceresses looked at Philippa. Her head never moved, facing straight ahead in Malek’s direction. Yennefer and Fringilla simply turned and walked out the chamber’s door, shutting it behind them. As soon as the door closed, Malek spoke.

“Miss Eilhart, you seem to think that you have some standing within Emperor Emhyr’s court that gives you leave to question me. I assure you, you do not. I can also assure you that whatever schemes you may have in mind with the Emperor, perhaps even becoming his consigliere, they will fail. He will never choose you over me. He would never choose you, period. In fact, I think he may even trust you less than I do.”

“Oh, and what exactly have I done to cause so much distrust? As if you even know me, Malek.”

Malek smiled, but it was one that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Just because you don’t know me doesn’t mean that I don’t know you. I know your favorite color is burgundy, that you like to sleep on your left side, that you prefer sexual relations with women, though you have no qualms about using sex as a tool of influence over either gender. Your favorite meal is rack of lamb, the bloodier the better. Oh, and you have…an affinity for owls.” With that, his smile grew just a fraction wider. 

“But those are nothing but trivial facts regarding Philippa Eilhart, the Jewel of the Court of Tretogor. I know you had a hand in King Vizimir’s death, a king to whom you pledged loyalty. I am also aware of your dealings at Loc Muinne. Therefore, I know you have no loyalty to the Empire. You are loyal only to you. But, even if I didn’t know that, I still wouldn’t trust you.”

“Is that so?” 

Philippa’s voice was cold. She had, in that moment, decided that she would one day kill Malek. She now needed to just start the planning. 

“Indeed. I wouldn’t trust you simply because you’re a magic user. It comes from chaos, and it is not natural. You are not natural.”

Philippa sneered. “Magic is not natural to you. Therefore, I understand your suspicions. Weak people always fear the more powerful. But that does not make magic evil or worthy of being vilified. In fact, I believe it is to be praised…and, trust me, it is quite natural to me. Would you like to see?”

Malek’s hands grasped the pommel of his sword and the grip of his knife tightly, just waiting for Philippa to move. His eyes were completely focused on her hands. For several long seconds, neither moved or said anything. Finally, Malek broke the silence.

“Many years ago, there was a body ravaged in the streets of Maecht, where I happened to be staying at the time,” stated Malek, his eyes never leaving the sorceress’ hands. “Then, shortly afterwards, there was another. The bodies were mutilated. Torn to shreds, covered in blood, their throats ripped open. As the corpses piled up, it became obvious that the culprit was not human. A witcher was hired, who was able to track and kill the monster. A vampire, called…an Ekimmara, if I remember correctly.”

“Truly fascinating. Is there a point?” 

“You believe that since magic is in your nature, then that makes it right and good. Well, it’s in the nature of the Ekimmara to drink blood…to eat flesh…to mutilate bodies. There are all types of _natural_ abominations.” 

With another smile, Malek stated, “I believe that ends our lesson. You are dismissed, Miss Eilhart, and your services are no longer needed. I shan’t trust your portal.”

  
  
oOo

  
  
_Blue Mountains_

Evie woke up to a completely black cavern, which confused her. It had been around noon when she had first laid down on a pallet. She knew she had been exhausted, but just how long had she slept? After her talk with Geralt that morning, she suddenly found that couldn’t stop yawning, which was understandable. She’d only gotten three hours of sleep the night before, mostly due to worry for her witcher. 

Normally, she would have gotten up immediately to find him, but she already knew exactly where he was. And that made her smile. She could feel his warm body behind her and his breath on the back of her neck. His arm was wrapped over her, and she was clutching his ungloved-hand to her chest. She couldn’t remember the last time that she’d felt this safe or content, which made her smile some more. She could definitely get used to waking up in his arms.

“Are you asleep?” she whispered. 

“No,” he whispered back. 

“Did you sleep?” she asked in a whisper again. 

She wasn’t sure why she was still whispering since she now knew he was awake, but it just seemed like the right thing to do. It was as if talking in a normal voice would somehow break the intimacy, which she was loathe to do. 

“No. But I did meditate for a while. How are you feeling now? You were out for a long time.”

“How long?”

“I’m not sure exactly because I can’t see the moon in here, but I’d guess fourteen or fifteen hours.”

“Oh, my gosh.”

“Yeah, well, that’s probably more sleep than you’ve had in the last three or four days combined. It’s been a hectic few days.”

“Is this what your life is always like?” she asked, thinking she already knew the answer.

“Actually, no.”

“What?”

“Seriously. My life has gotten a lot crazier with you in it. The Path is obviously a very dangerous road…and a pretty lonely one, as well. But, believe it or not, it can also be pretty boring.”

“Boring and witcher are not two words I’d ever associate together.”

“Well, it’s true. It’s not that uncommon to go several weeks without finding a contract. And those times can be pretty boring, just traveling from one small town to the next and, then, to the next. Truth is - I consider a couple of contracts in a month to be a pretty good month. Or, at least, nowadays it is. Forty, fifty years ago, there were monsters everywhere. But, now, the Path is mostly a lot of down time interrupted by two or three days of contract-induced excitement.”

“Then, what do you do with all that free time? I can’t believe that you just sit around talking to Roach the entire time.”

The witcher smiled. “There actually is a lot of that. But, no, that’s not all. Usually, I’ll train every day, do sword drills. That helps keep me physically and mentally fresh. I’ll also tend to my swords and gear every day, too. Even if they don’t need it, it’s a good habit to keep. I also enjoy, at night, pulling out my pipe and having a good smoke while gazing at the stars and…” The witcher suddenly stopped talking.

“And…what?”

“You know… just, uh, contemplating…well, stuff.”

Evie was no fool. The witcher was clearly hiding something.

“Stuff, huh? Just what kind of stuff do you think about?”

She heard the witcher let a frustrating sigh behind her.

“It’s okay, Butcher, you don’t have to tell me,” she said teasingly, a smile on her face. “I just thought we’d promised not to keep secrets from one another,” she continued in a mock-weepy voice. “But it’s okay. I understand.”

After several long seconds, the witcher growled, “Damn it. Fine.”

“Yay.” Evie said with a laugh.  
  
“Just promise me you won’t laugh.”

“Well, I can’t promise you that. What if you tell me - I don’t know - that you crochet pink booties for baby vampires? How could I not laugh at something like that?”

“Shows how much you know, Professor. There are no baby vampires. They’re all, like, a thousand years old.”

“You know what I mean.” When he didn’t say anything, she said, “Okay, I promise I won’t laugh.”

The witcher let out a small sigh. “Well, I, uh…like to…dabble in poetry.”

She quickly turned her head, though she didn’t know why. She couldn’t see him in the dark. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“How? How in the world?” 

This was a side of the witcher she would have never guessed. Then again, the man was a century old with quite a bit of down time. You’d figure that he’d have a hobby or two. But poetry?

He let out another long sigh. “Hell, I don’t know. Dandelion, I guess. I’ve been around him too long. He’s constantly writing lyrics to songs or crafting poems. The annoying part is that he’s always doing it out loud. And, frankly…I don’t think he’s that good. A bit overrated. Anyway, one night, I was lying out under the stars and thought…how hard could it be? So, I came up with something. It wasn’t any good, or at least, I don’t think it was. But I enjoyed the process.” 

“Yeah, what was so enjoyable?” 

Evie had a smile on her face. Her witcher, a poet. Who knew?

“Well, it’s challenging, and I guess I’ve always liked challenges. If you’re gonna be a witcher, you’d better. But…I think the main reason is because it allows me to create.” He then paused for a few seconds. “You know, my whole life – a witcher’s entire reason for being – revolves around killing. To destroy. And, to be honest, I’m damn good at it. But to actually create something…that’s a lot more satisfying than killing. And, in some ways, a hell of lot harder. I’ve haven’t told you this, but I actually own a vineyard down in Toussaint. Just acquired it recently. It’s crossed my mind to just hang up my swords and live there permanent. Spend my days cultivating the land; growing grapevines, olive trees, plants and flowers and vegetables; producing wine. I’m not sure why, but there’s just something about that – the prospect of creating, producing something from the land - that just appeals to me in a way killing never has. Maybe because I’d be, somehow…I don’t know, connecting to God?”

“How so?”

“Well, you know that I think a higher power – God – created all this, right?”

“I remember.”

“Well, I think of him as…the ‘Great Artist’…cause sometimes I’m absolutely amazed at what I see in this world. I’ve stood atop a peak in Ard Skellig, looking down into the Great Sea, getting lost in watching the waves crash into the cliff below. In Beauclair, I’ve sat next to the clearest, stillest lake at sunrise – it looked like a mirror. And as the sun came up, seeing the orange and red and purple of the sky reflecting in the water. It actually looked like there were two skies, two suns. I’ve gazed in awe at the pristine, snow-covered, virgin fields of White Orchard. It’s as if creation, itself, is telling us about him. Showing us what an incredible artist he is. And that’s just the big stuff. Think about all the tiniest of details that he thought of, too. Just think of us sapient beings and all the details that went into that creation. He didn’t have to give us the ability to see colors, or to smell fragrances, like vanilla-” upon hearing that, Evie couldn’t help but smile “-or to taste all the flavors that he created, or to hear the birds sing their songs, or to give us the ability to make music, or to experience the feeling of soft lips on our cheek, or anything else. He could have created a gray, odorless, tasteless, monotone, dull, drab world. But he didn’t. Like I said, he’s an amazing creator. And I think that working at my vineyard would just, I don’t know, allow me to connect with him and his creation in a way that killing monsters never would.” 

“You are a strange man, Geralt of Rivia,” she remarked with a smile.

If Evie could have seen him, she would have seen an amused look on his face. “Well, I know that I am, but why do you say so?”

“Well, face it, Geralt…you are a cynic. You definitely see the tankard as half-empty as opposed to half-full. So, for someone who is so quick to point out the evil and darkness found in humanity and routinely voices his view on the tragic, ironic, futility of life, it’s amazing that you are even capable, much less willing, to see the beauty in the world.”

Geralt slowly nodded his head. “Yeah. But…it’s just different. I don’t understand how everyone can’t see it. How can anyone lie out under a blanket of a million stars, or watch an enormous whale swim underneath them as they sail a boat off the coast of Spikeroog, or see a fifty-foot waterfall flowing into a crystal-clear river below, the water droplets producing a small rainbow on the surface, and not just be in awe of his creation? I’d have to be blind not to see it.”

“Well, that may be what makes you different.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are a lot of people in this world who just look. In fact, I’d say most of us go through our entire lives just…simply looking. But we never truly see. We never truly take in what’s right in front of us. To actually notice it, to appreciate it. I think it’s because most of the time we’re too focused on what we don’t have, instead of what we do…I think to truly see is a rare gift.” 

She then snuggled herself closer into the witcher and smiled. “All those places you mentioned – the mountain peaks, the still lakes, the snow-covered meadows…I’d like to visit them with you one day.” 

“Yeah? I think that I’d like that, too,” the witcher replied, squeezing her tighter. “A lot.”

“You know, I know exactly what you mean about the joy of creating,” Evie continued. “I’ve written several articles that have been published. Even have a couple of books published as well – though, they’re strictly academic texts that only other academics read. And like you, I just enjoy the process. Even if no one else ever read what I wrote, I’d still do it. But I really enjoy it when someone tells me that what I wrote was interesting or entertaining or thought-provoking. When I’ve written something that someone else enjoys, it’s like you said…it’s as if I’ve somehow made the world a slightly better place, added to it somehow.”

“Yeah, well, that I wouldn’t know about. I’ve never shared my poems with anyone.”

“Well, then, Geralt…you know what I’m gonna ask you next, right?”

“No way. They’re…well, they’re not any good.” He’d been about to say that they were “private” but he realized that wasn’t a legitimate excuse…because he didn’t want to keep anything from this woman. 

“Pleeeeaaaasse,” she asked in a silly tone.

“Fine. Okay,” he eventually said, in fake-resignation.

“Yay!” she said again. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“The poem’s title is… ‘Misery.’”

Suddenly, Geralt heard Evie snicker.

“What the hell? You’re laughing already? I’ve only told you the title.”

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing with you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not laughing.”

“Okay, you’re right, but come on, Geralt…you’ve got to admit, that’s funny. I mean, really? ‘Misery?’ That’s just so…you.” 

And then, she couldn’t hold back any more as she laughed out loud. As much as he wanted to be angry with her, he loved that sound. He decided right then and there that he’d gladly be the object of her fun if he could just keep hearing her laugh with such unbridled joy. 

“Do you also have one named, ‘Cynicism’ or what about, ‘Cursed’ or ‘Damn it?’” She couldn’t stop laughing now.

“Are you done?” he asked. He wasn’t about to admit now that he actually did have a poem about a curse.

Evie was gasping. “Wait, one more. How about ‘Curmudgeon?’” She laughed a bit longer before finally saying, “Okay. Now, I’m done.” But she still continued to chuckle.

Geralt didn’t say anything. After a while longer, her laughter finally died down.

“You’re not going to let me hear it now, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Yes, you will.” And he knew she was right. He’d give in…eventually.

“Nope. You ruined your chance,” he stated gruffly. But she could sense the grin on his face.

She let out a small sigh. 

“Alright, Witcher. I won’t press you…Now, let me up, please. With all that laughing, I nearly peed my pants.”

oOo

  
_Vengerberg_

Malek sat at the head of a long table in the Nilfgaardian garrison’s headquarters. Around the table sat six Nilfgaardian officers of the local garrison, and five hand-picked men from his own special squad that he commanded and trained. He was briefing them all on the upcoming mission. In front of each was a copy of the wanted poster for Professor Evangeline VanderBosch. 

“You will share this poster with all of your men. Ensure that they memorize her face in intimate detail…for she is not to be harmed. If she is killed, then I will, subsequently, perform a summary execution on that individual and their entire chain of command for directly disobeying orders. For there will be order on this mission. Therefore, until we arrive at our objective, I’d recommend that when your men are not staring at her picture, then they’re closing their eyes and day-dreaming of her. I do hope that I am clear.” 

Malek didn’t raise his voice nor pound his fist on the table nor stand and tower over the men. None of that was required. His presence alone was enough to intimidate. 

“Sir?” asked one of the local garrison commanders.

“Yes, van Strichen?”

“She looks, unfortunately, rather ordinary…common. Unless she wears her hair up so that we can see her ears…well, I would hate to lose my head if one of my men accidently mistakes her for an Aen Seidhe. Does she possess any distinguishing characteristics that I could pass along to my men?”

“I wish that I could tell you that she has a peg leg or a succubus’ tail, but alas, no. Though, she may have something just as identifiable – a witcher. And one of some renown.” 

Another officer had his hand raised.

“Yes, Perret?”

“This vatt’ghern…how will we identify him?”

“Well, if the cat eyes, twin swords on his back, and witcher medallion don’t clue you in, then look for his white hair and a long scar down his face. I can’t imagine you’ll be able to find an Aen Seidhe matching that description. He’ll also be the one shooting fire from his palm and wielding his sword with exceptional skill,” Malek added with a small smile. “I’m confident you and your men will be able to recognize him. Find him and you should be able to find Miss VanderBosch very nearby.”

“Sir, are we allowed to kill him?” asked another.

“Allowed? If necessary. He is aiding a known criminal. Able? Doubtful. But never fear, you are not called to kill him, or anyone else for that matter, even the Aen Seidhe. As far as I know, they have broken no laws. We are only truly interested in Miss VanderBosch, the individual accused of treason against the Empire.”

Unbeknownst to any of the men in the room, a common looking, grey owl was sitting serenely on the roof of the headquarters building, just above an open window. As soon as Malek had finished giving his orders, the owl immediately flew away. 

oOo

_Blue Mountains_

“Geralt, can I ask you a question?” Evie asked in between taking bites of bread and roasted meat.   
  
“Of course,” the monster-slayer responded.

The two were sitting side by side in front of a campfire, over which Geralt had just roasted a fowl that he’d killed earlier in the day. The witcher had also brought in the saddles of their respective mounts, and they were using them to lean back on and relax. When Evie had returned from visiting nature, Geralt already had the fire going and was in the middle of preparing a late-night meal for her. 

“You mentioned that you had never faced a cirnubaug before.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, have you ever come across a wraith like the one in the lab?”

“No, not even close.”

“What made it different?”

“Well, I can tell you how it was different, but I can’t really explain _why_ it was different.”

“Okay.”

“Well, a wraith is the spirit - or soul - of a person who, for whatever reason, is stuck in this world after death. It could be because it holds great remorse or anger or sadness. But I can’t fully explain how that happens. I’ve got to believe that there a lot more people who die with remorse or sadness that don’t turn into wraiths than actually do. So, I don’t know why some do and some don’t. It’s a bit of a mystery. But, regardless, in my experience, a wraith has always only ever consisted of one soul. I’ve never known multiple souls to ever cluster together like that. And I’ve also never known wraiths to be able to shoot fire or any other type of projectiles.” After a pause, he continued. “You know, if bestiaries were still produced, I could write a couple of entries on what I saw today. I could be published, too. Then, you’d have to start calling me ‘Professor.’”

“Right. Professor Geralt.” Evie smiled at that but then continued. “If you’ve never come across a cluster-souled wraith, then how did you know what rituals would allow it to move on? Just an educated guess?”

“No. It communicated with me.”

“It spoke to you?”

“No, not really. And here’s something else that made it different. I’ve come across some specters that can speak. In fact, that’s not that unusual. But this one didn’t speak. But it could send images into my mind. Almost, like, telepathy.”

“Wow. So, it showed what you needed to know?”

“Yeah, but more than that. It showed me images of what had been going on in that lab. Things that they did to Chiesa’s body. Things they did to the fetuses’ bodies after they died. Just dropped them in a bucket, like they were nothing but garbage. I never saw where they took them, but I highly doubt they were given a proper burial.”

After a moment, when Evie didn’t respond, Geralt looked over at her. She was just staring into the flames of the campfire, tears rolling down her face. He shifted his body over next to hers. As he put his arm around her, she leaned in to him, resting her head on his chest.

“Sorry. Shouldn’t have mentioned that. Do you want me to stop talking about it?”

She shook her head and wiped the tears away with one hand. 

“No, I’m still curious,” she answered. “If it showed you these images, then it must have been present when all that…evil was going on. So, then, why didn’t it just burn up those three near the start, before so many others had died?” 

“The best I can guess is that the souls didn’t actually adapt – cluster together and, somehow, acquire their flame-throwing ability, until the cirnubaug appeared. And I don’t think the cirnubaug manifested until recently, only until after dozens and dozens of the fetuses had died.”

He felt her nod her head on his chest.

“That elf, Iorveth, went in with you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“When we were all outside the gates, waiting for you, nobody could find him. And quite a few were looking for him. Apparently, he was a leader of some sort. A lot looked up to him.”

Geralt then told her of Iorveth’s sacrifice with the cirnubaug and of him smiling as he fell to his death.

“Smiling? Why do you think he was smiling?”

Geralt sighed. “He told me he was helping me as an act of penance. I think…I think he planned to die.”

“Penance? For what?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I think for Chiesa. One of the images the souls showed me was of him. He was alone in the lab, down on his knees, just outside of the magical barrier protecting her. His head was bowed and tears were streaming down his face. I’d never seen him like that. Ever. He looked…absolutely broken. He was speaking to her, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Frankly, I’m glad that I couldn’t. I don’t think I want to know exactly how he was involved. I’d rather remember him like he was at the end. Running down that portico…jumping on the cirnubaug’s back…that scarred smile on his face. That’s the elf I want to remember.”

“It’s ironic,” Evie stated after a moment.

“What is?”

“If he was truly penitent, then the soul-cluster would have forgiven him, like they did with Nuremel. His remorse could have absolved him. He wouldn’t have had to die.”

Geralt was silent for a long time, then he shook his head. “I get the feeling he’s glad that it resolved itself the way it did.”

“Why so?”

“Even if the souls had forgiven him, I don’t think that he would’ve ever forgiven himself.” 

The witcher felt Evie nod her head slightly against his chest. “He was your friend?”

“If you’d asked me two days ago, I’d have said no. But, yeah…I think he was.”

“Then, I’m sorry for you, Geralt.” She put her arm around his waist and hugged him tightly.

oOo

_Vizima_

“Bloody hell!” Philippa cursed. 

Yennefer had a slight smirk on her face, but Fringilla was stone-faced, as usual. It had been years since she’d allowed anyone to discern her thoughts or emotions through her expressions. That had been a weakness. One that she’d taken great pains and effort to rectify. 

Philippa was standing in front of her megascope. For the third or fourth time in the last twenty-four hours, she had tried – and failed – to reach either Ida or Francesca. Little did she know that Ida was dead and that Francesca’s megascope crystals – which she’d left inside the palace when she’d fled - had been damaged by the freezing cold temperatures brought on by the cirnubaug. 

“Very well.” Philippa then turned towards the others. “I will simply teleport to the palace to discuss matters with our sisters.”

“You’re willing to draw Malek’s ire?” asked Yennefer, the small smile no longer on her face.

“He has drawn my ire. His is but a trifle. Remember, magic, not Nilfgaard, is what’s important here and now, and whatever this historian possesses or knows, it’s in our best interest to obtain it first. Consequences be damned.” 

Yennefer was starting to regret ever having listened to Philippa all those months ago in her cottage. Regretted ever being pulled back into Philippa’s machinations. That autumn morning, she had hoped that aligning herself with Philippa and the Empire would help give her a purpose, to help take her mind off of Ciri. She had hoped the purpose would be to avenge Rita’s death on the battlefield. However, it became quickly clear that obtaining that revenge would be next to impossible. The Redanian military’s countermeasures against magic were simply too potent. She soon discovered that she was more or less worthless on the field of battle against them. It appeared as if there would never again be a battle like that of Sodden Hill, with mages casting great waves of magic at their enemy. The technology and science of the non-magic users was simply adapting and catching up to them. If mages were to be productive members of society, she knew that they’d have to find other ways to do so besides simply being a powerful military tool in battle. Perhaps, magic users never should have been involved with war in the first place and should have focused their gifts in other areas like medicine, engineering, and agriculture. But those thoughts were for another time.

The longer that Yennefer sat in the shadows doing nothing, the more the flame of revenge inside her began to fade. Especially when she realized she didn’t even truly know who was directly responsible for Rita’s death. Oh, sure, she could say that it was the Redanian military. But that was simply too broad of a target. Revenge needed a specific target – like Radovid, himself. But the more she thought about it, the less revenge interested her. And it was because revenge would not bring back the one thing in the world that she wanted the most – Ciri. 

All she’d ever wanted in life was to be a mother, and she’d done everything she knew to do to cure her infertility. But nothing had ever worked. But, then, fate intervened, putting little Ciri in her life. While Geralt and Ciri had formed a special bond, she knew that no one had ever loved Ciri like she had. And, even a year later, the pain lingered. At that point, she realized she had absolutely no desire to be involved in either Emhyr or Philippa’s plans anymore. Like her former lover, she’d never been truly interested in the slippery schemes found in royal courts or mage councils. And, now, she was interested in them even less. At that point, all she wanted to do was return to her cottage on the outskirts of Vengerberg. She looked at Fringilla but as usual could read nothing from her countenance.

oOo

_Blue Mountains_

Evie was still tucked into the witcher’s side, watching the flames of the fire dance and flicker and the smoke rise up towards the ceiling of the cavern. It had been a brutally emotional day for her. First, the crippling fear that she’d felt thinking that Geralt had been injured or killed; then seeing the horror of the third-floor lab, the sight bringing back her most painful memories; finally, watching Rat-face die in front of her. Despicable as he was, that wasn’t something that she’d wanted to see. She felt beaten up. But, lying next to Geralt, with her head on his chest, she could hear his heart beating and his very slows breaths, and that somehow comforted her, that he was next to her. She felt safe with him. And she realized she wanted him to know. 

“Geralt?”

“Yes.”

“Why haven’t you...why haven’t you asked me?”

After a moment, he asked, “About your child?”

“Yes.”

“Evie, I want to know everything about you – your dreams and hopes…your nightmares and fears, your…best days and your worst memories. But I…I want to be sensitive to your pain. I figured you’d tell me in your time.”

“Well…I want you to know.”

“Okay,” he said with a nod. “Then, I’m here.”

She didn’t say a word for the longest time. For so long, in fact, that Geralt thought she’d either changed her mind or fallen asleep. Finally, she spoke.

“I met Claude when I was twenty-four. I had just started working on my advanced degree in history at Oxenfurt Academy. He was studying archeology so we had a few classes together. He and I and a few other students started up a study group pretty quickly that first term. We’d meet once or twice a week to go over notes, discuss lectures, review for exams. It kind of became a bit of a social club, as well. Many nights, it seemed, we’d end up at The Alchemy or The Library downing pints and talking about everything but history. He was taken with me from the start. I mean, it was obvious. But I never felt that way for him. He asked me out once, at the end of that first semester. And I hated to turn him down – I didn’t want to break his heart – but I had to be honest about my feelings, too. He went home to visit his parents for winter break, and I was worried how he’d act when he returned. Afraid that he’d treat me differently. That it’d be so awkward that our little group of friends would break up. But he didn’t. He was the same old Claude. Kind and considerate. Always with a helping hand. Always the first to let you borrow his notes. But, every once in a while, I’d turn my head and catch him staring at me. I could briefly see the hurt and…longing still there, but he always quickly smiled and covered up what he was feeling.

“Then, that next fall, Uncle Malek came to see me. He told me that Mum and Dad had been murdered two weeks prior. We sat there at the kitchen table of my flat, him telling me details about the funeral and the investigation and such. I don’t remember what he said, because I just started drifting off in my head. I can remember thinking over and over, ‘I’m alone. I’m all alone.’

“Claude was the best over the next few weeks. A good friend. Came by to check on me at all times. Wouldn’t let me just stay locked up in my flat. Even offered to travel all the way down to Vicovaro with me to visit my parents’ graves. 

“One night, in my grief and loneliness and…selfishness, I turned to him. Not even thinking about what might happen. Or just not caring. Afterwards, he assumed we were a couple. But I still didn’t love him. And I…I just felt so guilty…so guilty for just using him like that…for hurting him…again. But, again, he didn’t get angry or make a scene. He just said that he understood, that he’d always be my friend. 

“And then, I found out I was pregnant. I can still remember the look on his face when I told him. His face lit up in the most joyful smile. But I was anything but joyful. In fact, I was devastated. I remember saying over and over again, ‘I don’t want this, I don’t want this. I wish it would go away.’ 

“Claude came back later that day, with a cheap copper ring, got down on his knee, and proposed. I can still remember the look on his face then, too. This look of vulnerability that was part hope, part fear. He was a good man. The kindest man. But I didn’t love him. But I said yes, anyway…cause that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?

“As the days and weeks went by, my heart changed. Not towards Claude, but towards our baby. I realized that I was carrying this little life inside of me. And that I wouldn’t be alone anymore. I would speak to him and sing to him, and Claude would, too. I got to know him, just based on him moving and kicking. Got to know what melodies he liked the best, how he’d act differently based on the foods I ate. And I know that he got to know me, too. Knew the sound of my voice.

“And then one day, the contractions started. We were so full of excitement as we headed to the clinic. And I started the delivery process, but it wasn’t long before I knew something was wrong. My son…my little boy…was stillborn.

“The medic and nurse clipped the cord and cleaned him up. Washed all the blood from him, wrapped him in a blanket, and placed him in my arms. And even though my Julien was dead, I held him close, and kissed his forehead, and rocked him, sang to him, cried over him. And, then, later that day…Claude and I buried him.” 

Evie sighed and was quiet for a while before finally continuing. 

“I was so thankful to the medic and nurse. That they did what they did. That they didn’t just take my son away from me. That they let me see him and say goodbye to him. But, afterwards, I felt so guilty.”

“Guilty, why?”

“Because of…of what I had said that first day. That I didn’t want him. That I wanted him to go away.” At that, Geralt heard Evie sob. 

“Geralt…did I…did I curse my son? Did he die because of me?” she asked as the tears fell. 

The witcher held her tightly. 

“No, Evie. No, you didn’t. That’s not how curses work. You didn’t curse your son.” 

With that, the last of Evie’s resolve withered and she just bawled. She bawled, and the witcher held her close and just gently rocked her. He held her tightly, and his heart was breaking for her. He wished that he knew what to do, what he could say to make it better. But he didn’t know. So, he just kept his mouth shut and held her.

After about ten minutes, he noticed that she’d finally settled down, that her breathing had returned to normal.

“I’d like to ask a question, but I don’t want to upset you again.”

“No, I’m fine. What do you want to know?”

“Is Julien’s death why you and Claude divorced?”

Evie shook her head. “If so, then only indirectly. The real reason we divorced was simply because of me.” She sighed deeply before continuing. “The right thing to do after that day would have been for Claude and me to turn to one another. To comfort each other, to encourage and support one another. And believe me, Claude tried. But the truth is that, even after all that, I still wasn’t in love him. If we hadn’t had that one night together, I never would have married him. So, instead of turning to him, I poured myself into my studies and, later, into work to distract myself. I began accepting jobs that would take me to far away archeological sites for months at a time. We eventually just drifted apart. I never asked, but I think that he ended up having an affair.” 

“What makes you think that?”

“Because he married again less than a month after we divorced. But you know what? I don’t hold it against him. I basically abandoned him. He deserved so much better than me. How I treated him is one of the biggest regrets of my life.” She looked down at that point. “Do you think less of me?”

The witcher slowly shook his head. “It’d be hypocritical if I did. My past is littered with relationships just like that – well, except for the marriage and pregnancy parts. And it seems like I was always the one leaving, always the one hurting the other. So…we all make mistakes in life. We all fall short of the whitewashed image of how we’d like to see ourselves. There have been times when I’ve been so disgusted with myself that just catching my reflection in my silver blade made me cringe. I think that…failing to live up to our own expectations is a basic human condition. I guess the key is that, when we do, when we hurt others, that we recognize it, ask for forgiveness, and, then, try our damnedest not to make the same mistake again.” I’m doing my best now not to make the same mistakes with you, the witcher thought to himself. 

Evie nodded her head. “Yeah. I wrote to Claude a year after we divorced, asking for forgiveness. He was incredibly gracious.” After a pause, she looked at the witcher with tears once again welling up in her eyes. “Thank you, Geralt. I don’t think that I could bear it if you…” And then a tear fell down her cheek. “…if you stopped looking at me the way that you do.” With that, she looked down again.

Geralt reached out his hand and placed it under her chin. He gently lifted her head and said, “Evie, look at me.”

She lifted her eyes to see a kind smile on his face – a smile that reached up to his eyes.

She then saw him tilt his head to the side, as if he was focused on listening to something.

“What is it?” she asked, suddenly anxious.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Just some morning birds. Looks like we talked all night. Dawn’s almost here.”

oOo

Inside the small courtyard of the elven palace, a portal suddenly appeared, out of which walked Philippa Eilhart.

oOo

“Lydial and Barcain came to see you yesterday afternoon, but they didn’t want to wake you,” said Geralt. “Have you spoken to them about why we’re here – about the tome and the Sword of Destruction?”

“Not yet. With everything going on the last two days, the timing never was right. With first the cirnubaug and then the wraith, I didn’t even want to mention anything else. What was I supposed to say, ‘And, oh by the way, you may also have the Black Ones here any day now to interrogate and torture you.’?”

“Yeah. Well, how about we head down there now to discuss it with them? The sooner we let them know, the sooner we can figure out our next step.”

“Are you in a hurry to leave?”

“Truthfully, yeah. After what I saw in that palace, I don’t like being here. I want to get as far away from Francesca as possible.”

“Okay. I understand. I’m ready when you are.”

“Actually, you go ahead. I’ve got a few ‘witcher’ things to take care of. I’ll be down shortly.”

She looked at the witcher. She could tell something was bothering him, but maybe, it was just what he’d said - that he wanted to leave quickly. Frankly, after what she’d seen yesterday, she didn’t blame him. 

“Well…okay. I’ll see you in a bit.” 

As Evie walked out of the cavern, the witcher noticed that she had startled a black bird that had been perched near the entrance. It flew off and didn’t return.

oOo

“Well, that is an intriguing tale, Philippa,” Francesca said with an eyebrow cocked. 

“And?” responded Philippa.

“But it just doesn’t interest me. My purpose is to ensure that the Aen Seidhe survive. This woman and what she knows plays no role in that. She’s insignificant. Therefore, when this Malek person shows up, I’ll just hand her over.” 

Philippa rolled her eyes behind her darkened glasses and sighed with frustration. 

“Does no one see the importance of this?” she said aloud but, mostly, to herself. “Emhyr is surrounded on all sides. Radovid on one side, Temerian rebels on another. The nobles of his own Empire want to usurp him. Not to mention the merchant guilds who are simply tired of this war. But, instead of focusing on any of those enemies, Emhyr is focused on her. So, she must be vitally important.” 

“So, what exactly are you saying?”

“What if she holds or knows of the key to some great power, to giving the Aen Seidhe the power to obtain the freedom that you’ve always wanted?” 

Philippa had no idea if that was true, and even if it was, there was no chance she’d ever allow anyone to possess it other than herself. However, right now, she just wanted the elven queen’s buy-in. 

A condescending smile crossed Francesca’s face. “Please, Philippa. It sounds like your desperation has driven you to flights of fancy and fairy tales. 

Philippa remained quiet for a bit. “Very well. If you’re not interested in the woman, then do it for another reason.”

“Oh, yes? And what would that be?”

“We could finally rid ourselves of that irritating witcher.” 

This time a more genuine smile came to the queen’s lips. “Now _that_ does interest me. And I happen to know just where they are.”


	12. Chapter 12

Book 1: The Wolf Awakens  
Chapter 12

A dozen Aen Seidhe warriors crept silently and with precision toward the cavern entrance. Aen Seidhe was translated as “of the hills” in Common Speech. Therefore, it was no surprise that these elves, as befitting that description, moved with extreme stealth through the terrain of the Blue Mountains. No normal human could have ever heard their approach. It was a skill that had proven useful many times over in ambushes before. And all twelve of these elves had been involved in countless such actions while serving in either the guerilla Scoia’tael units or the elven Vrihedd brigade of the Nilfgaardian 4th Calvary Army during the second Northern War. All were battle hardened and had seen a lot of death - many deaths caused by their own hands. As the dozen elves finally reached the entrance of the cave, they positioned themselves on either side of the opening, awaiting the signal to flood in, capture and kill – to capture the woman and to kill the witcher. 

All twelve of these elves had been specifically handpicked by Francesca. She was aware that many of the Aen Seidhe, especially the Esseans, were quite grateful to the witcher for his work the previous day. But she knew that these twelve – regardless of whatever feelings they had toward the witcher – were supremely loyal to her. There would be no reservations or hesitations in what had to be done.   
  
Both Philippa and Francesca trailed behind at least fifty yards. While they both had a variety of skills, moving silently along a cluttered forest floor wasn’t necessarily one of them. Thus, they stayed back for they did not want to alert the witcher of their presence. A simple, inadvertent step on the tiniest, brittle twig could ruin the element of surprise for they were both aware of the witcher’s mutation-enhanced hearing. Upon seeing her warriors in place, Francesca turned towards Philippa.

“Are you ready?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered with the evilest of smiles. 

Philippa was already picturing the witcher’s blood running cold and watching the light fade from his mutant eyes. She had never forgiven him for his meddling at Loc Muinne. While she clearly knew that he was a skilled swordsman, she also considered him a fool who bumbled and stumbled his way into affairs that were never his concern and far beyond his intelligence and station in life. However, he always - shockingly and disappointingly - survived. Philippa was convinced that it was simply through sheer dumb luck. But today would be his end. She knew that he was no match for her power. 

Francesca opened a portal, and she stepped through with Philippa right behind. They were both anticipating the battle that would ensue as soon as they exited the adjoining fiery ring on the inside of the cave. Their queen casting the portal was the previously agreed-to sign, and upon seeing it, the twelve elven warriors moved with haste into the cavern. 

Queen Enid’s portal appeared in the middle of the cave, and as soon as she stepped through, she saw, heard, and felt explosions in front of her, towards the entrance. Though the explosions did no actual damage to her body, she was so jarred and surprised by the unexpected display of flash, sound, and force that she took a step backwards, instinctively covering her face with her forearm. She immediately collided with Philippa, who had just exited the portal herself. The two sorceresses lost their balance, and while Francesca fell to the cavern floor, Philippa was knocked backwards through the still open portal, which then immediately closed.

The sorceress from Montecalvo stumbled out of the portal and landed on her hands and knees back in the woods of the Blue Mountain. Falling to the ground had knocked her glasses from her face. And while she didn’t actually need them to see, her vanity overwhelmed all other thoughts, and finding those dark-tinted spectacles that covered her still unformed eyes took priority over all else. She frantically searched the forest floor around her, swiveling her head about for several, desperate moments. Then, with a sigh of relief, she saw them a few feet from her, partially covered by a leaf. She scrambled over to them, blew the dust from the lenses, and then carefully placed them back onto her face. Only then did she look back towards the cavern. 

What she saw was disconcerting. It was a bit difficult to tell due to dust and smoke billowing out of the cave, but it appeared that the entrance of the cavern was now blocked by a large rock formation. That damned witcher. How did he know? She then cast her arms about in a dramatic manner. A few seconds later, she transformed into an owl, but she didn’t fly towards to cave. While no one could ever accuse Philippa Eilhart of cowardice, none would ever accuse of her stupidity either, and she was not about to fly blindly into a now, clearly hostile, dust-filled environment where she would be at a disadvantage. As she took flight, she wished her fellow sorceress well. 

Francesca sat up, her left arm locked straight and slightly behind her, supporting her upper body. She squinted towards the entrance of the cave, but there wasn’t much to see as dust and smoke filled the air in that area of the cavern. But, despite visibility being impaired and despite a small ringing in her ears from the explosions that had just taken place, she could still hear. She could easily detect the moans, cries, and shouts from her warriors - her unseen warriors covered by the dust cloud. Suddenly, she caught movement in her peripheral vision. She turned her head to notice a small round object coming with great velocity in her direction. The part of the brain that can assess and calculate danger in fractions of a second told her that it was another bomb, and she closed her eyes and shielded her face as she instinctively knew that she had no time to defend against it. She heard and felt the bomb hit and detonate close to her. But, a moment later, when she felt no pain coursing through her body, she slowly opened her eyes. She looked around and then down at herself. She smiled seeing that she was still whole. The device must have malfunctioned. And, then, what she saw next caused a sneer to cross her face. It was time for this witcher to die. 

The monster-slayer walked out of the shadows in Francesca’s direction, his steel sword in his left hand. As he came nearer and nearer, the elven sorceress began reciting her favorite spell. It only took a second to cast, but it was incredibly violent. The witcher was almost on her when she threw both hands forward in his direction, eagerly anticipating the powerful streams of blood-boiling fire to end his life once and for all. But nothing happened. Her eyes bulged as she stared at her hands. Thoughts of fear, confusion, and accusation flashed through her mind, and, then, she glanced up at the witcher just in time to see his right hand pulled back next to his shoulder. 

The witcher drove his closed fist forward with all the power that he could muster. As his stud-covered glove smashed into the sorceress’ face, he could hear the satisfying sound of bone and cartilage snapping. Francesca’s head jerked back and her body sailed backwards several feet, falling to the cavern floor with a heavy thud. The White Wolf couldn’t remember the last time punching someone had felt so good. The queen moaned and reached her hands up to her once flawlessly-beautiful face, blood pouring from her shattered nose and split lips. She felt something foreign in her mouth, and as she moved her tongue about, she realized he had knocked out two of her teeth. 

The Butcher of Blaviken stood, towering over the fallen queen of the Aen Seidhe. 

“You may not be on your knees. But bloody and flat on your ass looks just as good,” he growled. He was about to turn away when he added, “Oh…and just how much are you loving your magic now?”

The professional killer then turned and stalked towards the entrance of the cave. The dust was dissipating just enough that when Francesca lifted her head from the ground, she could see five or six of her warriors standing on their feet, looking around, assessing what had just happened. The other half she assumed were dead – either from the bombs’ explosions or from being crushed by the giant, rock column that was now blocking the entrance. 

The sorceress slowly rolled over and then got to her knees, once again facing the cave entrance. Her eyes were glaring at the back of the witcher, who was now surrounded by orange, lightning-like bolts of energy shimmering around his body. She saw a flash of steel and the sound of metal on metal as he parried an attack; a turn and slash and, then, she heard a cry of pain as an Aen Seidhe leg was lopped off. A pirouette and another cry as this time an arm was removed near the shoulder. An impossibly quick movement of the sword as an archer’s arrow was deflected; then, a somersault forward and a heart was pierced. A dodge to his right and another parry; a reverse spin and a head flew through the air, blood squirting from the neck. A final parry, a blast of Aard, and a downward thrust of his sword through the head of the supine elf. Then, the witcher stood alone.

The Butcher of Blaviken, not even breathing heavy, turned to face the queen, who was now standing. While he was fighting, she had tried to cast another spell but to no avail. The dimeritium dust from the bomb had soaked into her skin, and it would now be quite some time before she could wield magic again. As the witcher slowly approached, she calmed her emotions. She would not allow this mutant to see her weak, though she knew that the missing teeth and the blood still running from her nose detracted from her regal air.

“Well done, vatt’ghern,” she stated calmly, as if she was completely untroubled by the events that had just taken place. “Those were my best fighters.” 

The witcher now stood silently in front of the proud sorceress. 

“I will admit – a fantastic display of skill,” she continued. “And just how did you catch us off guard? The ambushers being ambushed. Clearly, I underestimated you. I shan’t the next time.” 

She had a smile on her face, but one that would have looked appropriate on a beast about to eat its prey.

“There won’t be a next time.” 

The sorceress rolled her eyes. “Please, not this again. We’ve had this conversation before, remember? Though I can see the strong desire in your eyes to strike me down, we both know that you won’t. You value the lives on the third-floor just…too…much.” She wiped the blood from her nose again and, then, looked down at her hand. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, vatt’ghern, I’ll be heading back to my palace.”

The witcher was staring at the elf, slowly nodding his head. And, then, faster than her eyes could comprehend, he brought his sword forward and drove it right through her chest, the blade exiting her back. Francesca’s eyes widened in shock. She looked down at the steel weapon penetrating her chest, and, then, she brought both hands up to feebly grasp the blade. Her eyes returned to those of her killer.

“That was for Chiesa,” he said in a low voice. And, then, he violently turned the sword, twisting it inside her body. “And that was for her children.”

He brought his left hand up and gripped the now-dead sorceress around her slender neck. Holding her limp body upright, he removed the sword from her chest. He looked down at his blade, covered in her blood. He then slowly wiped the blade clean on the side of her dress. He flipped the sword in his hand and wiped the other side, as well. He looked into her dead-eyes.

“Not so special after all. You bleed red, just like the rest of us…May you rest in hell.”

He gave a slight push with his left hand, letting Francesca’s lifeless, blood-covered body fall to the cavern floor.

oOo

“And just why are you accused of treason, Evangeline?” Lydial asked. Her tone wasn’t filled with anger, just curiosity and concern.

Evie reached into the satchel that rested against her left hip. 

“Because of this.” 

She pulled out the old elven tome and carefully handed it to her grandmother. 

Lydial looked into her Evie’s eyes. “What is this?”

“Just read a bit, and you’ll see.”

Lydial’s eyes moved from Evie and down to the book in her hands. She slowly opened the cover and began skimming the text. She hadn’t even been reading for a minute when she gasped. 

“Evangeline, this is…where…where did you get this?” 

“Stole it…from the Empire.”

“This…this is a sacred book of Essea. Do you understand…none of us have these anymore? They were all lost…during the -.” 

But she didn’t finish. She was too overwhelmed with emotion, and tears were welling up in the Aen Seidhe’s eyes. 

Evie nodded her head for she knew well. As a historian, she was fully aware that the Aen Seidhe who believed in the god Essea no longer possessed any actual sacred scriptures. Nothing in writing that they could lend to a neighbor or pass down to their children. All the history, teachings, parables, and songs of worship surrounding their god were simply shared through oral story telling alone. Lydial, for the sake of posterity, had taken the time over the years to write down what she had been told by her parents about Essea, but that only amounted to a couple of dozen pages. Evie looked at her grandmother who was now holding the book with reverence. 

“I know that you’ve always told me that stealing is wrong,” she said with a smile, “but I had a very good reason.” 

Evie then went on to give Lydial and Barcain a shortened summary of the contents of the tome and tell them of her theory regarding the rod of Apophis confirming the existence of the Sword of Destruction. During this discussion, none of them noticed a grey owl perched atop a short fence just outside an open window of the hut. After flying away from the cavern, Philippa had made her way to the palace grounds. She was aware of what Evie looked like based on the wanted posters, but she hadn’t known where she was located. For all she knew, the historian was still in the cavern. But she’d figured that she’d fly around the palace for a bit anyway. And given how few Aen Seidhe elves were actually left in the palace grounds, it hadn’t taken her long to find this conversation. Philippa was particularly thankful for the summer months. It made eavesdropping so much easier when folks kept their windows and doors open at all times. 

“So, that’s why I came here. I had to see if you were okay. And to warn you.”

Lydial sat there shaking her head, a slight smile on her face, clutching the tome in her hands. 

“Well, no one has ever come here asking me about you…and certainly not about this. This is so incredible. I can’t wait to read this myself. Oh…and the others…I can’t wait to share it with them.”

Evie looked at her grandmother, smiling along with her. But then her smile left her face.

“Nain, I’ve got something else I need to tell you. Nothing to do with the book…but what’s in the palace.” And then she told them of the third-floor lab.

When it was over, everyone was silent. Barcain looked stunned, just sitting there with his mouth open.

“Geralt said that Queen Enid made a veiled threat that if he told anyone, then harm would come to you. So, that’s why he didn’t say anything to you yesterday. But…” Evie looked down to the floor. When she looked up, there was a pleading look in her eyes. “…I’d never want to do anything that’d put you in danger…but I had to tell you. So that…so that you’d know… about them and about Enid. Hell, I refuse to call her ‘Queen’ anymore.”

Lydial had a look of compassion on her face. She reached out and patted Evie’s hand. 

“You did the right thing by telling us. Sometimes ignorance is bliss, but most times, knowledge is worth the responsibility and risk that comes with it. This is one of those times. We may have to bide our time, but once they’re all born, we’ll get them away from her if it’s the last thing we do.” 

Suddenly, they heard the sound of a large bird fluttering its wings coming from just beyond a side window. Seconds later, Geralt came running into the hut. 

“We need to get the hell out of here…right now.”

oOo

Though no one would have ever been able to tell from his appearance, Malek felt unease stirring within. Though Emhyr had given written orders to the garrison captain at Vengerberg to surrender a hundred soldiers to Malek’s command, that simply wasn’t possible. First, there had been less than eighty soldiers in total housed at the garrison. Second, Malek, in good conscience, could not leave the garrison utterly empty for he was a firm believer that law and order walked hand in hand. He knew, too well, that civil disobedience and rebellion would always, eventually, run rampant in the absence of any authority. So, he would not take every available soldier for his mission and leave the citizens of Vengerberg at the mercy of rebels, hoodlums, and outlaws. Thus, along with his five hand-picked men, he had fifty Nilfgaardian soldiers riding hard behind him. The number he had originally intended. 

The reason for his unease was because, at his heart, Malek was a planner. He knew that, since the devil was in the details, so was the ultimate success of a mission. There was a reason that Emhyr trusted Malek like than no other. He simply got the job done, regardless of whatever the Emperor asked of him. And he was successful because he usually considered even the tiniest detail of the mission, took into account every contingency. He would send in spies, set up reconnaissance, bribe watchmen, use blackmail, seduce the wives of the local magistrates, supply prostitutes to the magistrates, whatever was necessary to get all the intelligence he needed. For he knew that proper planning depended upon accurate intelligence. Faulty intel was, possibly, even more dangerous to a mission than none at all. However, all of that intelligence-gathering took time. Something that he’d not been given in this matter. He knew that Evangeline was at the elven palace, but he didn’t know for how long. And if she left before he arrived, then it might be another two years before they caught a sniff of her trail again. He couldn’t count on another serendipitous event – like her recent abduction - to reveal her location if she went back into hiding. Malek knew that the Emperor, unless something drastically changed, would be no longer be the emperor in two years’ time. 

He acknowledged the fact that he could have used the sorceresses’ skills to arrive at the palace earlier. However, Malek had two reservations with that. One, their power was limited. They could possibly, at most, teleport fifteen to twenty men to the palace before they drained themselves of power. That simply wasn’t enough men if battle became necessary. But, more importantly, he simply didn’t trust them. He would never trust them. Thus, he and the fifty-five men at his disposal simply rode their horses hard.

oOo

“And that’s why the four of us have to leave immediately,” stated Lydial. “For both your safety and theirs,” and she pointed her thumb upwards to the third floor of the palace. “If we’re here, then we bring more danger to you.”

Lydial was sitting at the top of the portico steps, with Evie and Barcain on either side of her. The roughly twenty, adult Aen Seidhe elves left in the palace stood or sat on the steps below. She hadn’t gone into the details of Evie’s treason charge, but she had assured them that what Evie had done was justified. She also assured them that them not knowing the details at this point in time was the safest thing possible for all of them. And since almost all of the two dozen elves still remaining were also Esseans, they believed her. She had proved her honor to them over the years. She had also revealed to them the existence of the fetuses on the third floor, with a remorseful Nuremel confirming this truth. 

“So, when the Nilfgaardians arrive, simply tell them what I’ve told you just now. Simply tell them that we’ve left and that you to don’t know to where – cause that’s the truth.”

It was at that point that the witcher walked up holding the reins of Roach and three other mounts. When Lydial had decided that she needed to gather up her friends and neighbors to say goodbye and to give an explanation as to why, Geralt had left for the cavern and then to the stables to retrieve horses and supplies. 

“We really need to go,” he simply stated.

oOo

The witcher, the historian, the ex-Nilfgaardian soldier, and the Essean were riding their horses hard through the Blue Mountains. At that point, they didn’t even have a certain destination in mind. They were just trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the approaching Nilfgaardians. But, seeing as the Black Ones would be riding in from the west, they knew not to ride in that direction - at least, not immediately. They moved fast towards the north, towards the Pontar River, the natural border between the Nilfgaardian and Redanian empires. They would all feel a bit safer once they were out of Nilfgaardian-controlled lands.

oOo

Malek and his soldiers stood in the middle of the elven palace grounds. They were surrounding the small remnant of unarmed Aen Seidhe elves who still called the Blue Mountains their home. Malek had ordered the elves to stand shoulder to should in a line. Nuremel was standing out in front of the line. Malek’s eyes moved slowly over every elf standing in the row in front of him, carefully studying each one. After he was done, he addressed Nuremel.

“How long ago did they leave?” Malek asked.

“Early morning,” Nuremel answered. 

Malek looked up at the sun hanging low in the sky and then exhaled deeply through his nose. 

“And her grandmother…where is she?” he asked after turning his gaze back to the elf. 

“She left with them.” 

“Anyone else?”

“Her brother.”  
  
Malek slightly nodded his head.

“I thank you for your cooperation so far, Nuremel, especially since I know how distasteful it must be for you to do so. That said, in spite of your cooperation, you must know that I must confirm that Miss VanderBosch is, indeed, absent from the premises…Timataal.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” said Malek’s burly, energetic second-in-command, stepping forward. 

He was at least a foot shorter than Malek, but had a barrel chest and thick arms. His short, reddish goatee was steaked with a bit of gray, revealing his age. He had met Malek over three decades ago and was fiercely loyal to the man. In fact, Malek considered him to be one of his few, actual friends. In private, he called Malek by his first name, but in front of other soldiers, he always used ‘Sir.’ And as deeply loyal as he was, he was also just as keenly intelligent. And loyalty and intelligence were two traits that Malek highly valued in both his friends and subordinates. 

“Take forty men and search everywhere. The grounds first.”

The search took an hour. During that time, Malek never noticed a gray owl resting in a very tall tree just outside of the palace walls. The leaves of the trees provided the owl concealment, and from her vantage point, she could see clearly down into the grounds. Her owl-eyes glared with hatred down at the tall, bearded man in black giving orders. 

A small voice deep down in Philippa’s mind was telling her that she was making a mistake. It was telling her that she should be trailing the historian and the witcher. The historian was, obviously, the link to some incredibly powerful sword or elven artifact. An artifact that, in her hands, could allow her to rule the Continent and its peoples, which was clearly in her and magic’s best interest. But the larger part of Philippa dismissed the small voice. It rationalized her actions, stating that she knew in which general direction the foursome was heading and that in her avian state, she’d easily be able to catch up and find them within the day when her business at hand was complete. And, oh, how that larger part of Philippa wanted to complete that business. She would finally squash Malek like the insignificant bug that he was. No man ever talked down to Philippa Eilhart and lived for long. 

Malek nodded his head upon receiving the report that the grounds were, indeed, clear of his quarry. He then ordered that the palace be searched. Before the men departed, Nuremel interrupted.

“Mr. Malek, sir,” stammered Nuremel. 

“Just ‘Malek’ will suffice.”

“Malek, sir, please…there is a lab on the third floor…something of a sensitive, but highly important nature to us Aen Seidhe. I beg you not to enter. And I can assure you that nobody is hiding there, especially not the ones you’re looking for.”

“Nuremel, I would like to take you at your word for, I will admit, you do seem sincere. But do you want to know what the best quality is in a conman? The ability to fake sincerity. And given that we’ve just met and that I do not yet know your measure, you’ll have to forgive my lack of trust.” Then, Malek continued. “It’s nothing personal. It just keeps me alive.

“Timataal, search the palace. I want you to oversee the third-floor personally. Oh, and please be sensitive to whatever is in this lab.”

“Understood, sir.” 

oOo

Timataal was not liking the look of this in the least. The third-floor landing and corridor showed clear evidence of a recent battle of some sort. Despite the elves’ obvious attempts to clean things up a bit, he could still see several shattered stained-glass windows, some tar-like residue on the floor and walls, and scorch marks elsewhere. Most of the damage seemed to be coming from his right so he turned down that corridor. The corridor was fairly wide, enough for five men to walk down it abreast. As they reached the door, he motioned with his hands to his men. Three moved to the left of the door, eight stayed in their current position in front of the door, and four would be following him in. 

Malek’s second-in-command slowly opened the lab door with his short sword at the ready. Then, he and four other Nilfgaardians, all from the Vengerberg garrison, crept in. What they saw made them all pause.

“What the hell?” cried out one.

“Are these bloody elves growing bloody elves?”

“Shut it!” commanded Timataal.

One soldier stepped forward. “Let’s end this freakishness.”

As he was about to strike at one of the glass containers, an eerie, shimmering, translucent figure materialized from out of nowhere and floated in the middle of the lab in between the soldiers and the tables.

“You shall not harm them. These are my children,” calmly stated the green-tinted specter. 

If any of these men had possessed the knowledge of a witcher, they’d have known that this specter was not going to attack them at this point. It was manifesting itself as a ghost, resembling what it had looked like while living in the world. Witchers knew that one could still communicate and reason with ghosts when they were still in this form. Witchers knew that it was only when they transformed into a monstrous wraith that it was time to draw the silver sword. Unfortunately, none of these men were witchers or had their knowledge. While Timataal recognized that they should heed the specter’s warning and simply walk slowly back out of the lab and quietly shut the door, the others did not. And despite the fact that they had heard hundreds of ghost stories, none had actually seen one in person, and at that point, fear overwhelmed any sense of rationale. Their fight-flight-freeze reflex kicked in, and for three of the Nilfgaardians, their reflex was fight, and they charged Chiesa’s ghost.

“Oh, hell,” was all that Timataal had to say before all hell broke loose.

Chiesa’s ghost immediately changed into a hideous-looking wraith, with shriveled skin, empty eye-sockets, a serpent-like tongue, and all the rest. The most relevant feature to the soldiers, however, were the ten-inch long, bone-hard, razor-sharp claws that protruded from her fingers. She suddenly twisted her body like a top, and spun toward the three charging men, her claws slicing through their armor, faces, and necks.

Timataal rushed from the room and dove to his right while yelling at the men to flee. The wraith swept through the eight soldiers standing in front of the door, their bodies falling to the floor as she tore them to shreds. Timataal didn’t even bother checking on their status. He simply scrambled to his feet and ran down the empty hall, three men right behind him. 

oOo

Malek, the remaining Nilfgaardians, and the Aen Seidhe were all standing or sitting in the middle of the palace grounds. After the incredible excitement of the last two days, the last ninety minutes had, frankly, been a bit boring, for both the humans and elves involved. Suddenly, they began to hear noises coming from within the castle, and it sounded like the shouts and screams of men. Malek and his men all drew their swords and quickly turned to the elves, peering at them with half-questioning, half-accusatory looks on the faces. Before they could question the Aen Seidhe, they heard the sound of glass shattering. They all watched in shock as a bloody Timataal crashed through a third-floor window and fell ten feet to the roof of the portico. He landed on his side with a thud and immediately started rolling down the slick, inclined portico roof. His body sailed off the edge of the portico and dropped another fifteen feet to the palace grounds. Malek rushed to aid his friend, but half way there, he suddenly stopped when he heard a hideous scream coming from the front doors of the palace. 

Everyone’s heads turned to the front doors to see that the hideous scream had originated from a terrifying wraith. The Aen Seidhe, after what they’d seen in the last week, were the first to move and began sprinting towards the front gates of the palace grounds. Immediately after, half the Nilfgaardian soldiers were right behind. Only Malek and four of his men remained. He was about to defend himself from the monstrosity when, to his surprise, it simply slammed the front doors to the palace. Moments later, he heard more sounds coming from within.

Malek headed to Timataal’s side and saw, to his relief, that his friend’s eyes were open and he was still breathing. 

“Run,” gasped out Timataal in a whisper.

“Not without you, friend,” replied Malek as he reached down and lifted his comrade to his feet.

The chaos below was exactly the type of distraction that Philippa had been hoping for – something that would get Malek away from the bulk of his men. Now, it was only him and five others. She planned to kill the five first so that she could then face Malek one-on-one. She relished the thought of killing him slowly, insulting him the entire time. As the half dozen Nilfgaardians slowly made their way to the front gate of the palace, Philippa swooped down into the palace grounds. While not as powerful as when in her human form, even as an owl, she could wield some deadly spells. She quickly killed two of the soldiers with a lightning bolt spell before anyone even knew that there was danger from above. However, these men were all combat-hardened. They immediately located the enemy, assessed the situation, pulled their crossbows, and began firing bolts in her direction. In her avian form, Philippa did not possess a great deal of defensive magic so she flew to the ground, landed behind one of the statues that was fixed atop the fountain ledge, and quickly transformed back into her natural, human body.

From her position of safety behind the statue, Philippa called out in a taunting tone, “Malek, you claim to know me so well. So, you should have seen this coming.” Then, she laughed. “Do you know what my favorite spell is, Malek? Do you know how this abomination is going to kill you? I’m sorry. I can’t hear you, Malek.” The sorceress laughed again, clearly enjoying herself. 

She stepped out from behind the statue and quickly cast another lightning bolt spell, hitting another soldier. Malek had been expecting it and had thrown a bomb towards the witch as soon as she had appeared. It detonated near her, but she had seen it coming and dove hard to her left back behind cover – behind the two-foot-high fountain ledge. While it hadn’t killed her, a bit of shrapnel had found flesh, blood flowing from a small wound on her leg. 

“Philippa, you dead…hopefully?” Malek asked loudly. 

He and his two remaining living men were also crouched behind the ledge of the fountain on the side opposite to Philippa. However, they were both quite wounded, and one of them, Timataal, could barely stand. 

“Why don’t you let my two men go? They haven’t done anything to you. You’ve got no fight with them.”  
  
“Of course, Malek. Just have them drop their weapons and stand. I’ll open a portal for them back to Vengerberg.” The sarcasm in her voice was unmistakable. “How about I give them a good-bye shag as a parting gift, as well?”

Just as she had finished speaking, another bomb dropped in her vicinity. She cast a quick shield, not the most powerful she knew given that she had to act immediately, but just strong enough to absorb all the damage from the bomb. She immediately stood and cast a two-handed, highly intricate shield in front of her and, then, she began walking towards the other side of the fountain, in line of sight with her quarry. 

Malek peeked over the fountain ledge and saw Philippa walking in their direction, a shimmering blue glow in front of her. He immediately stood and threw his last two bombs in her direction. They exploded upon hitting her shield, and while the sorceress stopped momentarily, his bombs harmed her in no way. He quickly reached down for his weapon strapped to his right thigh, and as he pulled it from its holster, he felt a searing pain in his left shoulder as he was zapped with one of Philippa’s lightning bolts. He sailed backwards and hit the ground hard. If he had been wearing typical metal, Nilfgaardian armor, he probably would have died from that one shock of lightning. However, he always preferred wearing specially-treated leather armor that was almost as durable and half the weight. It was extremely expensive armor, but in this instance, it had definitely been worth the cost. For metal, the great conductor that is it, would have done nothing to neutralize the power of the lightning bolt as his treated-leather had done. That said, the spell had still knocked him off his feet, and he could feel blood running from his left shoulder and down his arm. 

He looked up to see Philippa approaching with a cruel smile on her face. She had activated her shimmering blue shield again. She stopped ten feet in front of Malek and his two men, and he could see that she wore an expression of victory. Timataal, his back propped up against the fountain, had his crossbow in his hands and shot a bolt in her direction, but it bounced feebly off of her shield. She glanced in his direction, a look of condescension on her face. When she shifted her eyes back to Malek, he had what looked like a metal pipe in his hand.

“Oh, my. Plan on trying to beat me with a metal pipe? You know, I must say, I’m rather disappointed in you. I thought you’d give me more of a challenge than this. You’ve barely even scratched me,” she said with a look of amusement on her face. “King Vizimir put up more of a fight than you, and he was a pathetic, old man.” Then, she noticed a slow smile spread across Malek’s face.

But he didn’t bother with any taunts or insults. He pointed the end of the tube in her direction and then slammed the palm of his left hand forward into a metal “plunger” that was connected to the pipe. Immediately, there was a loud bang, and a blast exploded from the end of the tube facing the sorceress. The explosion inside the tube sent out shards of metal at an incredible velocity, with so much force that they shattered Philippa’s shield and buried into her lower hip and upper thigh. 

The sorceress fell back to the ground with a cry of pain, looking down to see blood beginning to soak her dress. As she looked up to Malek, she could see him in the process of pointing the tube at her again. She transformed quickly into her owl form, and as she flew over the palace walls, she heard another small explosion coming from behind. She heard the sound of something whizzing past her, but the small, metal shrapnel sailed far wide of its target. 

Malek knew that he’d missed with his second shot and began immediately twisting the cylinder in the tube until he heard a small click and knew that the next shot was now lined up and ready for detonation. He looked up to find his target, but Philippa was already out of sight. He slowly got to his knees and quickly assessed the situation. His injury wasn’t imminently fatal, but he was fairly sure that he’d succumb to it before he was able to ride to Gulet, which was the next closest town with any kind of medical help. He strongly doubted he’d get any assistance from these Aen Seidhe. His two men were in more dire straits. He sighed deeply as he realized that he only had one real option. 

Pressing his right hand forcefully to his left shoulder, he walked briskly out of the palace gates and found his horse in the woods. He mounted and rode quickly back to the palace grounds. He reached into his saddle bags and pulled out a megascope. Though it was true that the device was invented by mages, non-magic users could also work it if they’d been taught how. Luckily, there had been one sorceress who had been willing to teach him, and it was she that he’d be contacting now. Given that she was a wielder of magic, he didn’t trust this woman at all; though, he did trust her more than any other that he’d ever met for, at least, she was a Nilfgaardian. 

Less than two minutes later, Fringilla Vigo walked out of a portal. 

“Let them go through first,” he said immediately. He and the sorceress helped Timataal and the other to their feet and through the portal.

As Malek walked towards the portal himself, he wobbled a bit, the blood loss starting to affect him. He could feel himself getting light-headed. Fringilla reached out and grabbed him tightly by the arm and around the waist so that he wouldn’t fall. He looked down into the petite, dark-haired woman’s eyes, and she was staring right back at him, but as usual, her face was like stone.

“Thank you,” Malek finally stated, and he gave her a small smile. “I owe you.”

Suddenly, and for just a moment, Malek saw her mask disappear, as a smile appeared on Fringilla’s face. A smile that reached her eyes. It was gone in a flash, but Malek knew that he’d seen it, and he’d liked what he’d seen. He found himself suddenly intrigued and thought maybe that he’d like to actually get to know this sorceress a bit better. Give her a chance to see if she could prove him wrong about all magic-users. Of course, that could have been just the blood loss affecting his good judgment. Time would tell.

With his left arm draped over the Fringilla’s shoulders and her arm still wrapped around his waist, the two stepped through the portal. 

oOo

Many hours later, after they were sure that they weren’t being followed by the Nilfgaardians, the four were standing by a small, mountain pond. They were giving their horses a much-deserved rest and water-break after such a lengthy and strenuous ride. The witcher was kneeling at the edge of the pond cleaning his sword and armor while Lydial and Evie held the Essean tome, discussing its contents in excited whispers. Finally, Barcain coughed loudly causing everyone to look his way.

“Um, you know, sorry to interrupt and all, but just wondering, once we’re north of the Pontar, what’s the plan then?” asked Barcain, with raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders. 

No one answered. The four were all looking at each other waiting for someone else to respond. Finally, Evie spoke. 

“Geralt, Nilfgaard will never stop hunting me, will they?” 

He rose to his feet, walked over to the other three, and then shook his head.

“Nilfgaard might…but Emhyr never will. I know what he’s like. He’ll stop at nothing.”

“Then, what are our options?” asked Lydial.

All three were looking at Geralt, but he wasn’t sure why. He killed monsters for a living. He was a witcher, not a…well, whatever they were expecting him to be.

With a sigh, he replied, “Go back into hiding. Head far north, maybe to Kaer Morhen. Though, they might expect that. Or, two, we kill Emhyr…”

Evie snorted. “We’re being serious, Geralt.”

“Hey, I was just asked for options, not easy ones. A dead Emhyr certainly won’t be chasing you down. Or…I guess a third option is that we find the Sword ourselves.”

“For what purpose?” asked Barcain. “So that the four of us can rule the world?” he queried with a smile. “Actually, that sounds pretty good.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of destroying it. If the Sword is destroyed, then Emhyr won’t have any reason to hunt you any longer. Well, except out of vengeance. Of course, by then, maybe he’ll already be dead. He’s got plenty of enemies.” After a pause, the witcher continued. “Going into hiding is definitely the easiest and probably the safest choice.”

Evie looked down and shook her head. “I’m so tired of hiding,” she said in a whisper, though the rest easily heard her.

“Evangeline, what do you want to do?” asked Lydial. “We’ll go with you wherever.” 

She looked at Barcain and Geralt who were both nodding their heads.

“No,” said Evie shaking her head again, her eyes slightly wide. “You can’t ask me to decide for the whole group. That’s too much responsibility…Let’s vote. Majority rules.”

The other three looked at one another, and then all nodded their heads.

“Okay, Barcain…your decision?” prompted Evie.

“Let’s go get the Sword,” he said with a big smile.

“The Sword,” agreed Lydial.

Then, all three looked at the witcher. 

“Personally, I’d like to kill Emhyr, but…that’s probably not the wisest choice...so, the Sword it is.” 

Evie was looking at all three of them. Then, a smile came to her face. 

“You all voted that way just because you knew that’s what I wanted to do.” 

“You’ll never be able prove it,” answered Barcain with a grin.

For a moment, the four just looked at each other, with everyone but Geralt looking a little in shock at what they’d just decided.

“So, if we’re going after this thing, then where to, Professor? You’re the expert,” stated Geralt.

“Well, I don’t know exactly, but there are clues, and I think I know of someone who can help.”

“Please don’t tell me he’s in Nilfgaard,” pleaded Barcain with a smirk.

“Luckily, no. We’re going to Redania,” Evie stated, looking each one in the eye.

“Redania, huh?” remarked the witcher, while slightly nodding his head. “Least there shouldn’t be any bat-shit crazy witches to deal with.”

Evie, hearing the word “witch,” suddenly gasped. 

“Geralt, I just realized - what exactly happened to Francesca? I never saw her towards the end. Was she still in the cavern when you went back to get the horses and gear?”

“Yeah…I left her in the cavern,” he replied in his typical, gravelly tone.

“Geralt…what did you do?” she asked, suspicion creeping into her voice  
  
“Well, I killed her,” he stated matter-of-factly. 

“Geralt!” she gasped.

“What?” he asked, genuine confusion on his face.

“You killed her?” her voice raising even higher. 

“Well…yeah,” he replied, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. “She came there to kill me. It was self-defense…well, more or less.”

“I…uh…” She couldn’t even get her words out. “I’m…I’m not upset about the self-defense, Geralt…I’m upset about…what about the lives on the third floor?” she finally got out between stutters. 

“Oh…yeah, that. I took care of that,” he replied calmly with a nod of assurance and dismissive wave of his hand.

“What? But…how?” Now, she was the one confused.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I took care of that.”

“What do you mean?”

The witcher looked at the equally confused Barcain and Lydial before turning back to Evie. Then, the tiniest of smirks appeared on his face.

“You know, I just realized…I don’t think you ever really apologized to me for laughing at my poem.”

Evie stared at the witcher for a moment before a reluctant smile came to her lips, and she began shaking her head slowly.

“Really, Butcher? Blackmail? You’re going to use blackmail?”

Geralt shrugged, the smirk still there. 

“Blackmail. Guilt-trips. Constant nagging. Aren’t those the pillars of a strong relationship?”

“Oh, dear.”

“No? Huh…well, that’s about all I’m familiar with.”

Fifteen minutes later, Geralt and Evie were riding side by side, quietly enjoying each other’s company, with Barcain and Lydial talking and riding several yards behind them. 

“You know, Geralt, I really am sorry that I laughed at your poem. I still would like to hear it. I promise I won’t laugh this time.”

Geralt looked over to her and then back over his shoulder to make sure Lydial and Barcain were outside of ear-shot. Once he was convinced that they couldn’t eavesdrop, he turned back to Evie. 

“Alright,” he stated, his voice slightly above a whisper. He looked forward and sighed before starting his recitation. “‘Misery’ by Geralt of Rivia. A cold blanket of misery comforts me. A shard of ice-” 

But he stopped when he heard Evie snicker. He looked over to see her hand covering an obvious smile, her face turning red, and her eyes full of mirth. It looked like she was doing everything in her power to keep the laughter in. 

“Damn it,” he said, shaking his head, but he couldn’t keep the small smirk off his face.

With that, Evie burst out laughing. The witcher knew that he should probably be angry, but, damn it, he just loved that sound.

oOo

A raven flew up and out of the forest of the Blue Mountains, flapping its wings vigorously as it headed down the steep slope, directly towards the elven palace grounds. As it came to the outer wall, it momentarily stopped pumping its wings and simply floated about on the winds, crisscrossing the palace grounds over the stables, the gardens, the kitchen, and the armory. It let out a guttural croak and then turned its body towards the palace itself. It flapped its wings once more, soaring higher and cresting over the roof of the third floor. The black bird spiraled downward and into the courtyard, gliding around the dead tree and a small fountain. It passed through an open door and into the foyer, back out of the palace, and, finally, flew off towards its owner back in the tree-covered mountains. 

Ten minutes later, Yennefer of Vengerberg walked slowly up the marble steps of the elven palace. There hadn’t been a solitary elf or human – at least, living – on the palace grounds. She couldn’t detect any sounds coming from inside the palace either, but, of course, she didn’t have supersensitive hearing like a witcher. As she reached the top of the portico, she stopped, faced the palace grounds, and surveyed the carnage. As she stood staring, the events of the last two days began to flash through her mind.

oOo

_“You’re willing to draw Malek’s ire?” asked Yennefer._

  
_“He has drawn my ire. His is but a trifle,” snarled Philippa. “Remember, magic, not Nilfgaard, is what’s most important, and whatever this historian possesses or knows, it’s in our best interest to obtain it first. Consequences be damned.”_

  
_Thirty seconds later, Philippa’s portal closed, and the room was deathly quiet. Yennefer turned to Fringilla, but neither said anything to the other. Eventually, Yennefer broke the silence._

_“I do believe that my time here in Emhyr’s court has come to an end. Please give both the Emperor and Philippa my regards. If they ask, tell them I have returned home to Vengerberg.”_

_The short-haired woman didn’t speak for a moment, just looking at Yennefer with her expressionless face. Just when Yennefer was about to turn away, thinking that the Nilfgaardian sorceress wasn’t going to respond at all, Fringilla gave a short nod of her head and replied, “Farewell.”_

_Whether or not Fringilla actually believed what the sorceress from Vengerberg had just said, Yennefer didn’t know and, frankly, didn’t care. She gave a similarly short nod of the head in return and then opened her own portal._

oOo

Yennefer walked around the large hole in the middle of the portico. As she approached the front door of the palace, she could see more clearly the dead bodies of the Nilfgaardian soldiers scattered about. If she thought there was carnage out on the palace grounds, it couldn’t compare to the interior. The foyer floor was drenched with viscous, drying blood, the air tinged with a metallic odor. She quickly moved to her right and began ascending the stairs. 

oOo

_Yennefer stepped out of her portal and into the Blue Mountains. She had been in the area many years before when she’d been kidnapped by Francesca during the Isle of Thanedd fiasco. She looked around the woods and then reached into a front pocket, pulling out a small, crystal-like skull. After a short incantation, the relic transformed into a raven._

_She whispered to it, “Find him.”_

oOo

The raven-haired sorceress made it to the second and, then, third floor of the palace, passing the bloody corpses of soldiers along the way. When she reached the third-floor landing, she paused and took in the damage. She turned to her right and peered down the long corridor. It, too, was lined with many corpses, but it appeared as if they had all been pushed to the sides, leaving a bloody walkway in between. 

oOo

_When she walked into the cavern, the witcher was standing and staring right at her, as if he had been waiting for her, which he had._

_“I was wondering about that raven,” stated the Witcher. “Not too many birds make my medallion twitch.”_

_“And I was wondering when you’d finally send your little flavor of the month on her way. You were about to force me to interrupt. Oh, and hello, Geralt. Thank you for the greeting. It’s nice to see you, too.”_

_He sighed. “Yen, I really don’t feel like doing this with you. So, just tell me - what are you doing here? And for that matter, how the hell did you even know I was here?”_

_The witcher didn’t have anger in his voice, just dread. He had no idea what was in store, but he was not anticipating that the conversation would be pleasant. They hadn’t spoken since he’d left her on the island of Undvik a little over a year ago, and he was dreading having to deal with her now. It was always so…tiresome._

_“Oh, I was just in the neighborhood, Geralt,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Please don’t ask stupid questions. You should know why I am here. I have come to warn you. It seems-”_

_“Warn me? About what?_

_The raven-haired sorceress glared at the witcher. “If you’d stop interrupting, I’d tell you.” She then sighed. “Both Emhyr and Philippa are after your… friend. I don’t know why she’s important, but they both, obviously, are convinced that she is. And they both know she’s here. Emhyr’s men should be here tonight if not sooner. And I believe that Philippa…well, Philippa is already with Francesca in the palace, as we speak.”_

_“Damn it,” the witcher growled. Then, he narrowed his eyes at the sorceress. “Just why are you telling me this? Like you actually care about her.”_

_“You’re right. I don’t, but I…” Then she stopped. “Just because we are no longer together doesn’t mean that…it doesn’t mean that I want to hear of your death.”_

_“Well…thanks,” he said, still a little surprised and wary of the sorceress’ unexpected arrival._

_He then quickly turned to look at his gear on the ground, already making plans. As he began to pull some traps and bombs from his saddle bags, he said over his shoulder, “Thanks again, Yen, but you may want to take off…unless you want to trade spells with those two. They might be here any minute.”_

_She stared at the witcher as he continued to gather his supplies. When she didn’t say anything, he stopped what he was doing and looked back at her. He could see something flash across her eyes._

_“If that is your wish. I won’t stay where I’m not wanted. Farewell.”_

_Damn it, he thought. Without even trying, he’d somehow hurt her again. He was about to apologize – for whatever he’d done - when a realization hit him like a charging chort._

_“Yen, wait! I need you to do me a favor.”_

_“Of all the nerve.”_

_“It’s important. I promise.”_

oOo

As Yennefer started walking down the corridor to the open door at the end, her heart began to pound. Her breathing was becoming a little more rapid, and she noticed her palms getting wet. She could see through the open door that there were several Aen Seidhe elves in the room.

oOo

_“What is this favor that is so important?”_

_“Promise me that when this is over – when Emhyr’s men are gone – when everything has quieted down, that you’ll go to the lab on the third floor of the palace.”_

_“And just what is there?” she asked_

oOo

Yennefer stopped at the threshold of the doorway. There were more than a dozen elves inside the lab, all clustered closely together. They still hadn’t noticed her since they all had their backs to the door. They were looking around the room at the large glass containers sitting on the tables. 

“What are we going to do now? It was only Queen Enid’s magic that was sustaining their lives,” stated one of the Aen Seidhe in a slightly desperate tone.

“There’s nothing that can be done,” replied another, her voice full of resignation.

oOo

_The raven-haired sorceress gasped. “Geralt, that can’t be. That is…Francesca, what have you done? And you’re sure?” she asked, staring hard at the witcher._

_“I swear it…on Ciri’s memory.”_

oOo

“I believe that I can help,” stated Yennefer softly. All the elves jumped and turned quickly to look at the stranger in black that smelled of lilac and gooseberries. “My name is Yennefer of Vengerberg, and I am a sorceress. I can help you…I can save them.” 

oOo

_As she was about to turn and leave the cavern, Geralt said, “Yen, I want…I just want to say I’m sorry.”_

_She stopped and then turned slowly back to the witcher. “For what exactly?”_

_“Well…for everything.” His eyes lowered for just a second before they returned to her face. “I know that I hurt you…a lot. I know, now, that…all you ever wanted was for me to commit to you, to love you the same way that you loved me. And I never did. I just…I just didn’t know how, Yen. I didn’t know how to love. Every time that things would start to get serious with us, I’d just leave. Always returned to the Path…and you didn’t deserve that. So, I’m …I’m sorry.”_

_She stared at the witcher, and then she nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry, too.”_

_“And…I’m sorry for Ciri, too, Yen.” The witcher swallowed hard. “I did everything I could to save her,” the White Wolf’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I know you think of her as your daughter even more than I do.”_

_Yennefer said nothing. Just stared at the witcher’s feet._

_“I hope one day you’ll be able to forgive me, Yen.”_

_She clenched her jaws and her eyes shifted upwards towards the ceiling of the cavern. After a moment, she swallowed, her eyes moved downward, and she looked again at the aging man in front of her._

_“I forgive you. Farewell, Witcher,” she stated curtly._

_And with that, she turned and walked from the cavern._

oOo

Yennefer’s eyes moved quickly from one glass container to the next. Some of the fetuses were still so small and undeveloped that it wouldn’t have truly been clear what they were if she didn’t already know. But some looked just weeks away from “birth.” As she looked at all of these little lives, she suddenly felt hopeful for the first time since Ciri’s death. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could be a mother again, after all. 

As a single tear welled up in her eye, a faint, wistful smile touched her lips, and she whispered to herself, “Thank you, Geralt. I love you, too.”

oOo

Later, as Geralt, Evie, Lydial, and Barcain continued their journey in the Blue Mountains, they approached a long, gradual slope leading up to a high ridge, with the mountains rising high on both sides of the winding, rock-strewn path. They eventually reached the crest of the ridge, and as they did, a view of Dol Blathanna, the Valley of Flowers, opened up to them far below. All four instinctively stopped upon seeing the valley spreading out for miles and miles to the west. Though it was spotted with the occasional farm house with its surrounding square of verdant crops, the rest of the valley was blanketed in swaths of bright yellows, pinks, whites, and blues - the flowers’ blooms giving testament to the origin of the valley’s name. 

The four all sat there on the back of their horses, soaking in the display, the reverent silence only broken by the occasional soft neigh of one of their mounts. Miles beyond the valley they could just make out the Mahakam Mountains, the tallest of the peaks still topped with a cap of white despite it being the summer months. Geralt’s eyes drifted upward towards the blue sky above, and, then, they slowly fell back down towards the horizon. The blue melted into purple, which, then, blended into orange and yellow and red - all the colors illuminated by the glowing ball of the sun just starting to hide behind the mountain range. Still, no one said anything, and no one rode on. Finally, in the silence, Lydial softly spoke. 

“The stars declare the glory of Essea; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.  
The oceans display his majestic power, and the forests atop the highest mountains sing  
praises to his holy name.  
Day after day, they pour forth their praises; night after night, they reveal knowledge.  
They use no words; they have no speech;  
Yet, their voice goes out to all the earth; their message to the ends of the world so that all will know the splendor of Ghloirinevellienn, his glory over all.”

Geralt turned his head slightly to look at Lydial. He noticed that Barcain, too, had turned to peer at his grandmother, but she was simply staring off towards the valley below. The White Wolf’s eyes then met those of Evie, and she smiled widely at her witcher. As they stared at one another, he slowly nodded his head, a faint grin coming to his lips as he took in her face, radiating with joy. Geralt then turned back toward the valley, his small smile transfixed, and as he gazed with awe at all of God’s creation laid out before him, he sensed the tiny light of peace and hope that was dwelling within begin to shine just a little more brightly.

oOo

The End of Book 1: The Wolf Awakens


	13. Chapter 13

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 1

_965 Years Ago_

Maccarreg, second son of Gaineamh, shielded his eyes from the blinding desert sun and squinted into the distance, unsure if what he was seeing was salvation or destruction. 

“What do you think, brother?” asked Taibhsear deferentially, standing to his left.

“Well, it looks like an oasis…” he replied in a whisper and then glanced at his brother - three years his senior – out of the corner of his eye. 

As the eldest, Taibhsear had followed in Gaineamh’s path and, upon his father’s death, had become the Aen Seidhe nation’s priest. But the younger brother was no less of a leader to the exiled elves. Maccarreg – just past elven hundred years of age – possessed incredible wisdom; and his faith in Essea was surpassed by none, but perhaps most importantly, he always seemed to put both that wisdom and faith into courageous action. And that’s what naturally drew others to him, though he, himself, had never sought out nor ever even wanted a position of leadership.

“…but I trust nothing in this forsaken desert to be for good,” continued Maccarreg. 

The two were standing alone on top of a high, barren sand dune facing the oasis to the west. A couple of miles beyond it stood an imposing mountain range.

“Understandably so. How many have we already lost on our journey? And it’s only been a week,” softly stated the Aen Seidhe priest. “But, look behind you - we’re about to die from thirst. We have to risk it.”

“I don’t have to look behind me, Taibhsear. I’m fully aware of the situation,” stated the physically weary elf. 

In the last seven days, their caravan of five hundred elves had been attacked by a sundry of monsters and beasts that Maccarreg had never laid eyes on before, and he was no stranger to post-Conjunction creatures. Most disconcertingly had been the attack by ursine-sized monsters on day four of the journey. The creatures may have had the mass of a bear, but they more closely resembled an insect - their bodies low to the ground and multiple legs attached to each side of their thorax. The appendages closest to the head were actually enormous pinchers that were capable of cutting a fully-grown elf in two. But, as dangerous as those pinchers were, the monsters’ most lethal attribute was their long, curved tails that ended in a hard, spear-like tip that they whipped through the air, impaling anything and everything in sight. The rampaging beasts had killed dozens of Aen Seidhe, mauled the only pack animals within the caravan, and, to finish things off, ruptured the one and only water tank being drawn in a camel-pulled wagon. In less than a week, the elves had lost half their party, two-thirds of their warriors, and their entire water supply. 

Maccarreg shook his head. “Do you understand this? I thought this was Essea’s hand. That our return was under his blessing,” the elven warrior said under his breath.

Taibhsear shook his head as well and whispered back, “No, I don’t. I believed it to be his will, too. Otherwise, we would’ve waited, but…this journey definitely seems cursed.”

He then sighed deeply and turned his head again to look at his brother with a smirk.

“But, as father always said, ‘As the heavens are higher than the earth…”

“‘…so are Essea’s plans higher than our plans and his thoughts higher than our thoughts,’” repeated the brothers in unison, now both wearing smiles on their faces. 

“Right. So, then, what is the plan?” asked the younger sibling.

“Well, we both believe this is his will…so let’s continue forward, toward the oasis…but keep our weapons drawn.” 

oOo

Maccarreg just sighed and shook his head as he watched the entire mob of elves running down the sand dune towards the oasis. He had listened to Taibhsear inform the Aen Seidhe of the necessity for caution, but at the first mention of water, they had lost their collective minds and took off with haste towards the cool liquid. He and his dozen warriors were running behind them, eyes scanning the surroundings, hoping that they wouldn’t actually be needed as a protection detail for once. 

After about two minutes of watching his elven kith and kin – either kneeling or prostrate - guzzling down the clear blue water, Maccarreg began to relax just a bit. Perhaps this was simply an oasis sent by Essea. Surrounding the water was lush, fertile, green vegetation, including some smaller shrubs and tall trees that Maccarreg had learned in his travels were called palm trees. He was just about to sheath his sword and kneel down for some water himself when his eyes picked up something odd. Out in the oasis, in several spots, he noticed disturbed silt from the bottom slowly rising upward and spreading throughout the clear spring. He peered closer, but he couldn’t see anything that could be causing the agitation of the oasis bed, and the muddy water was simply too far away from the edge for the elves to have been the source. And then he saw an air bubble rise to the surface and pop. 

His eyes going wide, Maccarreg yelled, “Stop drinking! Back away! Back away!”

Suddenly, several pink, rope-like tendrils – half the thickness of an elf’s wrist - shot out of the water, each one wrapping around an elf’s neck, arm, or waist. As the now-screaming elves were yanked into the water, monsters leapt from the muddy bottom below. Maccarreg immediately realized that the tendrils were actually these creatures’ long, whip-like tongues which were pulling the elves into their elongated jaws, filled with rows and rows of teeth. 

The once clear, tranquil water of the oasis suddenly morphed into violently churning chaos, suffused reddish-brown with the blood of elves. Dozens of lizard-like beasts – the size of a large dogs – moved quickly out of the water and began attacking the now fleeing Aen Seidhe. As the elves ran, the monsters propelled their tongues, twisting them around ankles or knees, causing their prey to fall to the ground. Maccarreg ran to the closest, downed-elf and sliced through the tongue that was wrapped around his ankles. The beast hissed violently, and blood sprayed through the air as the monster’s tongue retracted quickly into its mouth. Maccarreg scanned his surroundings to see many of his warriors had come up with the same solution. This maneuver did not cause the beasts to retreat, however. They simply continued their attack of the exhausted Aen Seidhe, catching them in their powerful snapping jaws. Dozens of cries filled Maccarreg’s ears. He looked around to see elves being dragged down into the water while others were on the desert sand being mauled by sharp claws and teeth. 

oOo

Thirty minutes later, Maccarreg – breathing heavily and his clothing soaked through with sweat and blood – looked about the oasis. The ground was covered with dozens of injured elves and an even greater number of corpses – corpses of both Aen Seidhe and the lizard-like creatures. He shook his head in disgust as he realized that they had lost nearly a third of their number to the oasis death-trap. Then, his eyes landed on one body in particular, causing his breath to catch in his throat. He then exhaled deeply, lowered his head, and closed his eyes. After a moment, he raised his head and began slowly walking towards his brother. Upon reaching the corpse, Maccarreg stared down into his best friend’s dead eyes. He then knelt next to Taibhsear and said a silent prayer, his hand resting on his brother’s shoulder. Once he was finished, he reached over, carefully lifted the strap of a leather satchel over his sibling’s head, and then placed the satchel diagonally across his own body. The physically-depleted Aen Seidhe leader slowly stood – with the thick bag now resting against his right hip - turned around, and peered at the mountain range off in the distance. That was their next destination. Essea help them with whatever awaited them there.

oOo

Monster-blood dripped off of Maccarreg’s sword as he stood exhausted inside the enormous mountain cavern. He had a small smile on his face as he looked slightly upward towards the exit, catching a glimpse of the bright, blue sky that was waiting for him on the outside. He had no idea where the rest of his scout team was for most had dispersed throughout the cavern when the strange, mountain creatures had attacked. He had just made up his mind to go looking for them when he suddenly heard a cry coming from behind. He quickly turned and saw that one of his tribe was battling another mountain-dwelling monster along a narrow, rock walkway – the one that he had just crossed - that traversed a dark abyss inside the cavern. Maccarreg watched helplessly as the monster, falling over the edge of the walkway, grabbed an elf named Anaseth and pulled her along with it. The female elf twisted free from the monster’s grip but still lost her footing. She fell off the walkway, her upper body and arms slamming against the stone. She frantically searched for anything to grab ahold of as her torso slipped quickly towards the edge. 

Maccarreg simultaneously sheathed his sword and began sprinting towards the screaming elf. He dove headfirst as he saw Anaseth’s head and hands slip over the edge. The elven leader’s right hand just caught her left wrist, but he quickly realized that the momentum of his leap and her extra weight were pulling him over the edge, as well. Gritting his teeth, he reached out with his left hand, desperately clawing at the smooth, stone surface, his fingernails cracking as he tried to dig them in to get a grip. But the rock was too hard, too smooth, and too slick with monster blood. His sweaty hand simply had nothing on which to grab. 

At that point, anyone else would have simply let go of the other elf so that they could then use both hands to save themselves, but that never crossed Maccarreg’s mind. The Aen Seidhe warrior’s right leg then fell over the edge, twisting his torso so that his left leg also quickly followed. The jarring movement caused Anaseth to slip from his grip, and the aged elf looked down and yelled, “No!” as he watched her plummet into the blackness, her screams filling his ears on her way down. Immediately, Maccarreg reached up his now-free right hand to grasp at anything, but it was too late. As the rest of his body rapidly slid towards the abyss, he suddenly lifted his eyes upward – and if anyone had been there to look into them, they would have testified to the peace therein. 

The elven warrior whispered, “Essea, keep me,” as he disappeared over the edge, falling silently into the dark void below.

oOo

_Vizima, Temeria; July 1273_

The eyes of Fringilla Vigo wandered over Malek’s muscular, bare chest. The mountain of a man lay on his back in a bed, with the sheets turned down to his waist. Eventually, she shifted her gaze to his left shoulder, which possessed a raised, bright-pink, star-shaped scar. She nodded her head at what she saw.

“It looks good. How does it feel?” she asked Malek.

He rolled his shoulder forward and back several times and then nodded his head.

“It’s functional,” he replied. Then, looking into the sorceress’ eyes, he continued, “I truly appreciate your help. I do recognize that, without it, it’d take me weeks to fully recover.”

She nodded her head back at him. “It was my pleasure. Have you perhaps changed your view regarding the usefulness of magic? You were quite vehement yesterday in your protestations of allowing me to heal you. Luckily, you passed out from blood-loss, or we might still be arguing.” She had the faintest of smirks on her face.

The soldier smiled briefly. “I’ve never doubted its usefulness. My hesitancy has been primarily with those who have wielded it. No offense…but I’ve never found any of you particularly trustworthy. And just because something is useful, doesn’t make it safe.”

The sorceress nodded her head and then shifted her gaze back to his shoulder. She then reached out with her small hand and gently traced the edge of his fresh scar with her fingertips. Malek wasn’t sure if she was using magic on his wound or not, but either way, her touch felt good, he thought to himself. When she was done, she left her hand resting on his bare skin and looked back into Malek’s eyes. 

“You are correct, of course. But…nothing in this world is safe. Everything carries an associated risk, and typically…the endeavors that promise the greatest reward also have the highest risk attached. We simply have to ask ourselves, ‘Is it worth it?’” 

Malek stared back into the sorceress’s eyes for a very long pause. 

“Why do I get the feeling that we’re no longer talking about magic?”

Before Fringilla could respond, the door opened and in walked the Emperor of Nilfgaard. She immediately removed her hand from Malek’s shoulder and took a step backward. 

“Leave us,” Emhyr directed towards Fringilla, who bowed her head and then left the room, closing the door behind her. 

The Emperor then sat in the chair near the foot of Malek’s bed and slowly crossed his legs.

He didn’t say anything for several moments. He finally spoke in a slow and deliberate manner.

“Given your relationship to the people involved, I recognize the possibility that this latest mission may be difficult for you…Are you conflicted? Should I seek a replacement?” 

Upon hearing this, Malek sat up in bed and stared at Emhyr. 

“No, Your Majesty. There’s no conflict. Why do you ask now?”

“Because I can’t remember the last time that you failed me. It causes me to ask certain questions.”

“Emhyr, I have shown my loyalty to you for decades and to Nilfgaard for even longer. And our plans haven’t failed, they’ve just been postponed.”   
  
Emhyr slammed the arm of his chair. “I can’t afford postponements. Do you understand? I don’t just need that sword, but I need it now.” He then inhaled deeply to compose himself, leaned back in the chair, and stated calmly, “I hope you possess the same sense of urgency in this matter as I do. For if I fall, do not think for an instant that my usurper will permit any of my inner-circle, including you, to live.” 

“I have no illusions,” Malek responded gravely. 

The two men then simply stared into each other’s eyes as silence filled the room. Finally, the Emperor turned his head and raised his voice for the sorceress to enter. After she approached, Emhyr pulled a parchment from an inner pocket and handed it to Fringilla.

“Take this to the commander at the garrison at Aldersberg,” he commanded. 

The sorceress bowed towards the Emperor, and then shot a quick glance in Malek’s direction before leaving the room. 

As the Nilfgaardian leader stood from his chair, he spoke softly. “The Aen Seidhe elves no longer serve any purpose for Nilfgaard. You should have killed them all when you were there. Your mistake will soon be rectified.”

Malek narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Please tell me that, in those orders, you at least warned them about the wraith in the palace. Otherwise, you just sentenced countless men to their graves.”

“I am starting to think that you are forgetting your place, Malek. Since when do you question me?”

“Since you gave me permission to…many years ago. Since when do you decide to exterminate an entire race simply out of anger? If you no longer consider them allies, then so be it, but don’t make them our enemies any more than they already are. How is that for the good of the Empire?”

Emhyr’s eyes flashed. “Comparing me to Radovid, now?”

“If the crown fits…” 

“Enough,” the Emperor said sternly. “I have permitted you to voice your opinion. My decision stands.”

With that, Emhyr stood and walked towards the door. He opened it, but before exiting, he turned and faced Malek.

“The trail is fresh, Malek. Find your niece, and find the sword. Don’t come back until you do.”

oOo

_Southeastern Kaedwen; Two days later_

“So, how do I look?” asked the witcher.

Evie, standing in front him, had her head tilted slightly to one side as if she was evaluating a painting. The witcher, who normally wore his long, white hair pulled back into a ponytail, certainly didn’t look like himself. His face was completely clean shaven, and his hair was very short – no longer than a finger’s height anywhere on his scalp. Additionally, in order to conceal his cat-eyes, he was wearing some darkly-tinted glasses that he’d bought at the Borsodi Brother’s Auction House several months past during a particularly complicated and difficult contract involving a man named, Olgierd von Everec.

“Well, from a distance, no one would ever recognize you, but if anyone who knows what you look like gets up close…” she replied with a shrug. “Face it, Geralt, your face is just too…” She paused, looking for the right word.

“…ruggedly handsome?” offered the White Wolf, straight-faced.

“…horribly scarred?” added Barcain with a smirk.

Evie shook her head and rolled her eyes at the both of them. 

“I was going to say, ‘unique,’” she replied, giving the witcher a smile. “But he is right. That’s pretty noticeable,” she said, pointing at the scar that ran down the left side of his face. 

“Damn it,” growled the monster-slayer. “Well, there’s not much we can do about it right now.”

Geralt and Evie – along with her grandmother and brother – were up in the Blue Mountains looking down on the large town of Ban Ard. They’d been camped there for the last several hours, all working to change their appearance, all at Geralt’s suggestion.

“We may be north of the Pontar, but that doesn’t mean we’re out of danger,” the witcher had pointed out earlier that morning.

“How so?” asked Barcain. “We’re out of Nilfgaardian-controlled land now. We should be safe, right?”

Geralt had shaken his head. “Don’t think for a second that they won’t cross the border in pursuit. And I have no doubt they have a network of spies already embedded in the north – spies who may already be informed about us. And don’t forget, Nilfgaard isn’t the only danger around. We’re now in land controlled by Radovid, who hates…well, everything, but especially everything non-human. So, we really need to change up the way you look,” Geralt had said, pointing to Lydial, who instinctively reached up and covered her pointy ears with her hands. “Exactly. In fact, we all need to change the way we look. Right now, given that Evie seems to be the only one with sufficient knowledge of where the Sword might be, then the most important factor isn’t speed. It’s stealth. We just need to make sure they don’t find us.”

“So, what is your plan?” Evie had asked.

Geralt suddenly had a vision of old Mr. Blenham’s codpiece. The one that he had worn for all the world to see. The one that had concealed his stolen jewels from a long-ago war. 

Nodding his head, the witcher informed them, “We’ll hide in plain sight, blend in. Since they’ll be looking for a group of four, we’ll simply need to find another party to travel with. And second…” Geralt then headed to his saddle bags and rummaged around for a bit. When he turned around, he lifted his left hand to display a set of shears.

“Oh, dear,” replied Evie.

Now, several hours later, Geralt was evaluating the other three, nodding his head slightly at their new looks. Barcain, previously having shoulder length hair, now sported a very short coiffure that clearly displayed his rounded ears while Lydial had rid herself of the elven braids and was wearing her long hair in a way that carefully covered her elven ears. Evie had cut off about seven or eight inches of her own hair so that it stopped just short of touching her collar bones, and she’d also pulled it back into a short ponytail. 

“It’s a start,” commented the witcher. “But we need to get rid of your clothes,” he added, looking at Barcain and Lydial. “Way too elvish.”

“Yeah? And then I can go by the alias, ‘Buck Naked,’” replied Barcain with a laugh. 

The witcher looked at the man for a moment and then slowly turned his head to make eye-contact with Evie, who just shrugged her shoulders. 

“Hey, I had to live with him for thirteen years.”

oOo

After having lived in the tiny outpost of Tarsus for the last two years, Evie had forgotten what an actual city was like, particularly just how loud they were. As she and Geralt walked through the wide, dirt streets of Ban Ard, her ears were filled with a cacophony of barking dogs, playing children, hard-working construction crews, and yelling merchants. After having already passed through the southern outskirts of town – where most of the lower, working-class and the few non-humans resided – with its smaller, one-story, thatched-roofed houses, they were now in the town proper, surrounded by brick or stone edifices, many of which were two to three stories tall. 

Like Tarsus, Ban Ard was a mining-town located near the Blue Mountains, but that’s where the similarities ended. While Tarsus was a relatively new settlement located down in the plains at the base of the mountains, Ban Ard was originally founded centuries ago when the valuable ore had been discovered. Additionally, Bar Ard was situated on a plateau midway up the range, giving the town’s residents a breath-taking view of the valley below. This feature was one reason it was a vacation spot for many of the richer Kaedweni citizens – those few that could actually afford a holiday. Hence, the reason for the number of inns and small “bed-and-breakfast” establishments in the area, many of which were located on the banks of the small, clear, mountain lake that was just north of town. 

Maranatha Lake was, in actuality, the partially damned up Maranatha River that flowed down from the mountains and then continued west down into the valley towards the capital of Ard Carraigh, and it was this river and lake – along with the mining industry – that had been the original lifeforce of the town. It didn’t just supply the townsfolk with the necessary clean water for living, but it was also the reason that the plateau was rife with crops, forest trees, and an abundance of wildlife. Dishes filled with rabbit, deer, and elk were routinely eaten by the Ban Ardians. And if they ever wanted a change of dietary pace, then there was the seemingly endless supply of salmon and mountain whitefish that populated the river itself. 

The town’s size and energy couldn’t be attributed solely to the mining and tourism industries though. The city also housed a large garrison of Kaedweni soldiers – or at least it had before the war - and it was also the home of the Ban Ard Magical Academy. And since all of these folks – the miners, the soldiers, the mages, and the vacationing rich – all needed places to eat, to shop, and to be entertained, it was no wonder that tiny mining town had grown into the small city that it was. While Ard Carraigh may have been the home to the royal throne, almost everyone considered Ban Ard to be the real jewel of the kingdom of Kaedwen. 

As they continued through the streets toward the center of town, Evie looked over at Geralt, walking by her side, and was still shocked by his appearance. In addition to the changes he’d made to his face and hair, he had also taken his two swords off of his back. His silver sword was attached to Roach’s saddle while he carried his steel sword on his left hip. He also wore a light-weight, dark brown, calf-length cloak that covered his witcher’s armor, and he had placed the cowl of the cloak over his head, as well. Just to be safe, he’d also hidden his medallion inside his clothes, resting against the skin of his chest, and put Ciri’s medallion in his front pocket.

As they stepped into the main square of Ban Ard, the noise level increased fivefold. Given that it was the summer months – prime vacationing season – the walkways and shops in the square were filled with a multitude of patrons. It was quite easy to spot those on holiday compared to the folk who called Ban Ard their home year-round, for the vacationers wore expensive, brightly colored ensembles typically only found in high-end districts of large metropolitan areas like Beauclair, the capital city of Nilfgaard, Pont Vanis, and Novigrad. In the middle of the square were dozens of stalls and kiosks, with merchants selling fruits, vegetables, a variety of fish caught from the local lake, animal hides of all kinds, little trinkets of jewelry, and much more. But there were few on holiday in this part of the square. They mostly kept to the edges, in the actual shops, where the more expensive merchandise was on display. All along the edge of the square, Evie saw cafes filled with patrons sitting under covered patios drinking beverages of all sorts. Other holiday-goers were enjoying their lunches up on the second-floor balconies of various restaurants. In addition to a bank and what looked like a large town hall, filling out the rest of the main square’s shops were bookstores, inns, salons, art galleries, apothecaries, boutiques, and haberdasheries. Gazing at the light-hearted, festive nature of the square, one could easily forget that the entire northern part of the continent was in the middle of a war. 

Suddenly, the smell of cooked food hit Evie’s nose and moments later her stomach growled loudly. The witcher slowly turned his head in her direction, and she looked at him with a small, embarrassed smile on her face. 

“You didn’t get breakfast, did you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, we got busy with the make-overs.”

Geralt nodded. “How about we grab their clothes first, and then let’s get you some lunch.”

After Evie nodded in agreement, they made their way through the mass of humanity in the crowded square. Unbeknownst to them, Geralt – with the hood of his cloak covering his face and with his sword visible on his hip - had caught the eye of a man standing on a second-floor balcony of one of the town’s many restaurants. The man turned his head and whistled while raising he left hand in a summoning gesture. Immediately, a half-dozen men appeared behind him.

oOo

Evie and Geralt sat on a bench, underneath the shade of a leafy, lake-side pecan tree, with Evie eating her grilled elk on a stick. Geralt took the glasses off of his face – he found them quite annoying – and his eyes drifted over the various cottages and buildings dotting the shoreline of Maranatha Lake. It had been a couple of years since he had last been in Ban Ard so there were a few new residences and businesses that had popped up, but his eyes stopped on one structure in particular. Across the lake from where they sat, he could see an edifice that was clearly new to the town.

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured lowly to himself, but Evie still heard him.

“What is it?” she asked between bites of her lunch.

“That open building right across from us, with the columns and the red-tiled roof.”

Evie squinted her eyes. “I can sort of make it out from here, but I don’t have your vision. What is it?”

“A temple of the Eternal Fire.”

“Really? Wow, I didn’t know that they’d made it out of Redania. I guess it makes sense, though…since Radovid now controls Kaedwen. I wonder what that means for the Magical Academy.” 

The Ban Ard Magical Academy was located just north of the lake, separated from it by a small but dense forest. It was the only magical school for sorcerers in the north, and it had been in its current location since before Geralt was born. As it had only ever accepted male adepts within its walls, the magical academy of Aretuza on the Isle of Thanedd had been created in order to educate females in the art and science of magic. There was, naturally, a rivalry between the two schools on which could produce the most powerful wielders of magic, and, to no one’s surprise, both schools consistently claimed that they were superior to the other. 

“I should have known there was a temple here. I spotted a few witch hunters and temple guards in the streets earlier…which means that the Academy has to be shut down,” the witcher answered. “Hell, given their presence, I’m kind of surprised we didn’t see anyone burned at the stake as we walked through the square.”

Evie shook her head. “I swear…the horrors that people do all in the name of their gods.”

After a moment of silence, Geralt nodded his head and stated, “Yeah, but…even so, there is a part of me that respects some aspects of the Eternal Fire.”

Evie just turned her head to look at the witcher. “You’re kidding, right?”

He shook his head. “Well, not their military arm, but a few of the priests and the followers.”  
  
“Wait, I thought you’d said that you didn’t believe in the Eternal Fire. That you’d looked into their god and found it lacking,” she asked with furrowed brow.

“Oh, I did…and it is. I mean, seriously, who in their right mind would want to worship a flame? An inanimate object can’t care for you, can’t act on your behalf. A flame can’t hear your pleas or answer your questions. What kind of comfort is there in that? I might as well be worshipping a piece of wood. God has clearly shown me that he is not an inanimate object. He’s revealed to me that he’s alive, that he’s the Great Artist, the Great Creator, which is the exact opposite of a flame, because fire does not create. It does nothing but destroy. It wipes out forests, towns – everything in its wake. Turns everything to ash. And you’ve seen first-hand what fire does to people – burns them to a…crispy, empty, hard shell. Fire is judgment. It just destroys and leaves no life afterward. It boggles my mind how anyone can find any kind of peace and hope in that religion.”

Evie nodded her head and then shrugged. 

“Perhaps, they simply see the flame as being the physical manifestation of God, and the fire – his judgment – is just one aspect of him. If I recall correctly, didn’t you say that judgment - justice - is an aspect of God that he’d have to possess if you were to worship him?” she asked, playing the devil’s advocate. The academic in her loved these types of discussions. 

“Yeah, but not the only aspect. I know that, one day, I’ll answer for all the evil that I’ve done. I know that one day I’ll stand in front of the Creator God of the universe, and he’ll justly condemn me for the evil that’s within me, for living an unrighteous life. I know that. I know, deep down in my soul, that I’m guilty. So…I need a God that can also – somehow – save me through that fire. That will protect me through the flames. A God who – in his judgment - might rightly use flames to burn away the evil that’s within my soul but that will also, somehow, heal me afterwards…apply salve to my burns, bandage my wounds. I need a God who will restore.”

“And you’re saying that the Eternal Fire doesn’t do that?”

Geralt shook his head

“If restoration or healing is an aspect of the Eternal Fire, then it’s an aspect that is never preached by its priests. Trust me, I’ve listened – secretly – to countless sermons of theirs. I wanted to know exactly what their god was about. And those priests never once mentioned that their flame can somehow save me from my guilt. They never preach that their god can save me through the fire. Hell, they preach that he is the fire. All they ever spout is that I should simply turn from my evil ways. Otherwise, I’ll be swallowed by the flames. But I once asked a priest if I did turn from evil and started leading a perfect life according to the flame’s creed, then what would I do with all the guilt from all my sins that I’d committed prior to my repentance. He looked at me like I’d grown an arm out of my forehead and just said that the flame would burn the guilt away. But there was nothing about restoration or healing afterwards. 

“And you know what? Even if that weren’t the case, their god still does me no good. Even if the flame does heal and save, their religion isn’t inclusive. Only humans are deemed worthy of worshipping the flame. So, if you’re born a non-human or if you’re a mutant, like me, then you’re just…out of luck. You’re gonna burn. Not a lot of hope in that message.” 

Evie nodded her head a couple of times. “Well, you’ve clearly thought about this, and you clearly don’t agree with their view of God. So, then, what exactly do you respect about them?”

“I may not agree with their message, but I do respect their commitment, their dedication. 

“Yeah. Most fanatics are quite committed,” Evie replied with a smile.

The witcher smirked back. “Well, I didn’t say that I respected them – and certainly not the militant ones…but I can respect their dedication. The priests, obviously, believe that living one’s life in accordance with the holy flame’s creed is the best and only way to live. And they are clearly taking that belief and sharing it with others – because two years ago that temple wasn’t here and we’re on the far edge of Kaedwen…which tells me that they’ve probably erected temples in every major city between here and Redania. And they’re sharing their message regardless of what kind of negative reception that they may receive. I can respect that – acting in the face of ridicule, acting in spite of one’s fear. I’ve met a lot of priests who were completely hypocritical and lived private lives that were in direct opposition to the Eternal Fire’s creed, but I’ve also met a few who actually tried to be faithful to the religion’s teachings and allowed their beliefs to guide their behavior. I can respect that type of authenticity.”

Evie nodded her head. “Okay. I can agree with that. Commitment and dedication are fine qualities, but…I’d say it’s just as important to have ethics and morals and…discernment. To know if what you’re committed to is actually ‘good.’ As you once told me, you’ve met people who were committed to simply watching the whole world burn.”

Geralt nodded his head in agreement. “No doubt.” After a moment of silence, he added, “You know, you’re like the priests.” 

She smiled widely and asked, “What? So, I’m a fanatic, too?”

The witcher shook his head. 

“Not a fanatic, but…you clearly have strong beliefs. Beliefs you’re committed to. You’ve shown me repeatedly how much you value life – be it your friends in Tarsus, your family, or those fetuses in the palace.” 

“I’m not sure that having a high regard for life makes me special,” she responded. 

Geralt gave a slight shrug. 

“I think it does. It’s true that most people care about their loved ones, and some might even stand up for the weak. But, you…you even cared about the lives of the three Nilfgaardian soldiers in your cabin, the lives of your enemies. Who does that?” he asked rhetorically with a shake of his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who actually cares about the lives of their enemies. 

“But, more than that, you actually stand up for your beliefs in the face of opposition, in the face of danger. You stood up to me when I wanted to kill those three soldiers. You stood up to me when I wanted to leave the nekker nest be. And you’ve been right by my side this entire journey – fighting nekkers, cirnabaugs, insane elves. You are, without a doubt, one of the kindest, most honorable, and most genuine people that I’ve ever met.” 

The witcher paused for just a moment, nodding his head. 

“That’s rare to find in this world, and I respect you a great deal for it,” he finished, looking into her eyes.

Evie blushed deeply and looked down for just a moment. She then raised her eyes to meet his. 

“Thank you, Geralt. You don’t know just how much those words mean to me, especially coming from you. I, uh…,” then she paused not really knowing what to say next.

She looked down at the half-eaten lunch in her hand, embarrassed by his words. She realized that what he’d just said might have been the first, real, direct compliment that he’d ever given her, and it had caught her off guard. She clearly respected him. How could she not? He’d only saved her life five or six times in the last two weeks. And she believed that, despite her advanced degrees, he was better at what he did than she would ever be at anything in her entire life. But she hadn’t known that he viewed her with a similar level of respect, as well. It made her feel better than she’d felt in a long time. 

She looked at the witcher again. “Thank you, Geralt,” she stated simply.

He nodded at her with a small smile on his face. They looked at each other a moment longer before Evie eventually turned her attention back to the food in her hand – though, she did continue to steal glances at him between bites.

While Evie was finishing her lunch, Geralt heard some laughter coming from across the lake. He shifted his gaze and noticed a dozen or more people walking out of another building, a building that looked like some sort of chapel. He watched as a young couple, smiles of happiness on their faces, exited the building and walked down its steps. Given how they were dressed and given how those around them were applauding and hugging them, the witcher assumed that they’d just been a part of some kind of wedding ceremony. He found that he couldn’t stop staring at the couple. 

Watching the scene play out, Geralt wondered what it’d be like to truly give himself completely to a woman, to fully commit himself to another with his body, mind, and soul. He’d come awfully close with Yennefer, but there had always been something – most likely his fear and insecurity, he assumed - that had caused him to hold back just the smallest part of himself. While he had clearly been willing to die for Yennefer, he had to now admit that he hadn’t been truly willing to live for her. And he suddenly realized that there was a significant difference between the two. Not only that, he saw now that the former was actually easier than the latter. To die for someone only required a one-time commitment, but to actually live for someone - that called for a daily commitment until death finally came knocking on his door. He realized that to truly live for someone else meant that he’d have to, in essence, die every day for the rest of his life. He’d have to die to himself – to kill that selfish part of himself – every single day in order to live selflessly for her. To put what was in Evie’s best interest above his own selfish wants. 

The witcher suddenly gave his head a slight shake and blinked his eyes. His vision came into focus on the clear water of the lake in front of him as he realized that he’d said Evie’s name during his introspection. He’d initially only been thinking about giving himself to a woman in general terms, and then, suddenly, her face had popped into his mind’s eye. He didn’t turn to look at her, but as he viewed her in his peripheral vision, he considered the amazingly kind woman sitting beside him and wondered what it would be like to make that type of commitment to her. Part of him was terrified by that thought, terrified with the prospect of truly handing his heart over to another person. Terrified of telling her, “Here is my soul. I’m entrusting you with it. Please protect it.” But a bigger part of him was terrified not to do so, to be filled with a lifetime of regret for not having tried with this woman. For, in only two weeks, she had proven repeatedly just what type of character she possessed. It dawned on him that if he couldn’t trust such a caring and sensitive woman as Evie, then there simply wasn’t anyone out there in the world who he would ever be able to trust with his heart. He realized, then, that he was on the cusp of an incredible decision, but deep down, he already knew what his choice would be. The witcher nodded his head to himself and then turned his entire body to face the woman next to him.

“Evie, I…I need you to know something.” 

“Okay,” she said, turning towards him and putting her meal aside.

“I want…I want to do this right.” 

“Do what right?”

Evie looked into Geralt’s eyes and saw something that she thought she’d never see in the witcher. Uncertainty she had seen, and maybe even doubt, but never fear. She didn’t think it was possible for her witcher to be afraid of anything. She reached over and tenderly placed her hand on top of his that was resting on the bench, and then she interlocked their fingers together. 

“Us,” he stated as he stared into her eyes.

Evie stopped breathing for just a moment. “Geralt…what…what are you trying to say?”

“Evie, I want…I want there to be an ‘us.’ I want to be with you, and…I don’t just mean in your bed. In fact, for some strange reason, for the first time in my life, that’s not what I mean, at all.”

Evie didn’t know what to say. She, suddenly, had a whirlwind of thoughts rushing through her mind. Her heart was pounding so loudly she knew that he had to be able to hear it. She just nodded her head and squeezed his hand for a few moments. Finally, she got her mind under enough control to recall the last thing that he’d said. 

“Butcher, are you saying that you don’t find me attractive?” she teased with a small smile on her lips. 

“Evie, you know that’s not the case. But…I…I don’t know how to love you. I don’t know how to truly love, at all. So…I need you to teach me.”

Then, the smirk on her face was replaced by a look of compassion. He looked so vulnerable sitting there before her. While Geralt may have been a highly trained and confident witcher and she could, therefore, count on his leadership in the areas of death and destruction, she realized that in the realm of love, he was a lost soul. She reached her hand upward and touched his cheek, and then she nodded her head. 

“Okay…I will. But I’m no expert either, Geralt. I think we’ll both have to learn as we go. And be patient and forgiving with each other as we learn. But I think that this is the right start. You’re loving me right now,” she said with a warm smile.

“What? How so?” the witcher asked, confusion in his voice.

“You’re sharing with me. You’re being vulnerable with me. You’re not hiding your feelings. And you’re not running away, like I ran away from Claude. You don’t know just how much that means to me, how much that makes me trust you. If we want to do this right, then we have to promise that we’ll always keep our guards down with each other.” 

The witcher stared into her eyes and slowly nodded his head. He knew she was right. Him holding back had been what had caused so much tension and conflict in his relationship with Yennefer. He’d never fully given himself to her, and she had known it, too. It’s why – despite his repeated protestations – she would routinely invade his mind to read his thoughts. The sorceress, in her own insecurity, had always wanted to know what he was hiding. He saw, now, how the smallest seed of distrust had sprouted its roots throughout their entire relationship, tainting it all. He vowed then not to make that same mistake with Evie. 

“I need to tell you about Yennefer,” Geralt said to Evie. 

“Okay,” she replied, slightly nodding her head.

And so he did. 

oOo

Lydial looked up from reading the Essean tome to see Geralt and Evie walking side-by-side up the hillside towards their temporary camp. They held their horses’ reins in their outer hands while their inner hands were clasped together. She put the book aside and stood up to greet them, but when they approached, they were no longer holding hands. She decided not to say anything at the moment, but she knew that she’d have a conversation with her granddaughter soon. 

“Any success?” Lydial asked. 

“You bet!” exclaimed Evie as she pulled out an olive-green, cloth bonnet with a wide, floppy brim. 

“That looks hideous. I hope that’s for you and not me,” said Barcain to Lydial with a laugh. 

“Ugghh,” sighed Lydial. “I’ll never understand Nordling fashion.”

An hour later, the four fugitives strolled into Ban Ard under the late-afternoon sun, with Lydial and Barcain dressed in more inconspicuous clothing. 

“Where to next?” asked Evie.

“Let’s head to the square. See if we can find an inn for the night. Maybe we can strike up some conversations there,” replied the witcher. 

They all knew that their current goal consisted of finding a traveling party that was heading west. One with a destination of Redania would be best, but for now, they’d settle for one on its way to Ard Carraigh. They had already stopped at a notice board in front of The Scalded Dog, a tavern with a rough-looking clientele located in the southern part of town, but it had only contained half-legible missives that were typical of notice boards all over the continent. There were offers for broken-down tools, requests for employment, notices of upcoming weddings or funerals, and a warning from a man named Aberforth against the degenerates who were molesting his goat. Apparently, the next miscreant he caught doing so without paying him for the privilege first would meet the sharp end of his axe. But there were no notices asking for escorts for traveling parties. 

oOo

“So, Evangeline, how long have you been in love with the witcher?” Lydial asked. 

The two were alone in one of the two rooms that they’d rented for the evening. Geralt and Barcain had stayed downstairs to take their four horses back to the inn’s stables. They’d agreed that they’d all meet in the dining area in half an hour. 

“I…uh…” and then Evie sighed with a smile. “Is it that obvious?” 

The elf nodded. “It was clear the first night I saw you two together in the cave. I also saw you two holding hands this afternoon as you came back from town. But before you got to our camp, you’d let go. If you’re trying to hide it, I want you to know that you don’t have to for my sake.”

“You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“Maybe…that remains to be seen,” the Aen Seidhe answered with a smile. “Tell me what you think is so special about him, and then I’ll give you my opinion of your mental state.”

Evie sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at her grandmother. 

“Nain, under all that gruff is…one of the most selfless, most vulnerable souls I’ve ever met. I don’t know why, but for some reason he just cares for me. He didn’t just save my life in the tavern that night, but he then spent the next week continuing to save my life nursing me back to health. I…I completely trust him. He’s been kind and understanding with me. He comforts me when I’m sad or scared. And he actually listens to me. He truly wants to know my opinions on matters. And he told me today that he respects me - my character, my beliefs. He makes me feel safe…and cherished. What woman wouldn’t want that?” After a pause, she continued. “And that’s just a part of it. He is, without a doubt, the most interesting and the sexiest man that I’ve ever met. He’s honorable, he stands up for the oppressed, he makes me laugh. I could talk about him all night.” 

When she finished, Lydial didn’t say anything for a moment. A nervous look flashed across Evie’s face. 

“So, do you think I’m crazy, to be falling for a witcher of all people?” she asked again tentatively.

Lydial smiled. 

“No. He actually sounds pretty wonderful. And the fact that you didn’t list his physical attributes first is encouraging.”

“Why? You don’t think physical attraction is important?”

“Well, it’s not unimportant, but it’s nothing compared to a man’s character. In fact, I’ve discovered that if you truly love someone, in time, you’ll find that you’re physically attracted to them simply because you love them, even if their appearance changes.” After a pause, she continued, “So…what are his faults?”

Evie shook her head and smiled at her grandmother. 

“I know why you’re asking, and you should know that you sound like him. He’s repeatedly said that we should use logic when making important decisions and not let our emotions cloud our judgment. So, you want to know if I have cloudy vision?”

“Do you?” Lydial asked with a smirk. “Because no man is perfect. If you think that he is, you’re going to be highly disappointed. And if you expect him to be, then, Evangeline, you will crush him under the weight of those expectations.”

“I know, Nain. I know. I still remember all of our talks. And, yes, he does have faults. At times, he can be a little impatient, but I think that’s just because he’s not used to dealing with people day-in and day-out. He’s been alone almost his entire life. When he gets impatient, he can be sarcastic, which, depending upon my mood, can rub me the wrong way. And once he’s made up his mind about the right course of action, there’s no changing his mind, but…to be honest, I can be a bit stubborn like that too, so…I’m not going to be too critical about that.”

“Anything else?”

“Not off the top of my head, but I’ll keep digging. Will that make you happy?” Evie asked with a laugh.

“Not at all,” she answered. “I like him, too, and I’m pleased for you both.” 

“Me, too, Nain. I just…I wonder what it’ll be like once this adventure is over. If he and I could have some kind of normal life together. I don’t even think he knows what ‘normal’ is.”

“Then, you’ll have to teach him. Either that, or you two just come up with your own ‘normal’ and not worry about what anyone else thinks.”

Evie reached over and hugged her grandmother. “Thanks, Nain. Now, we better get downstairs. There’s no telling what Barcain is saying about me.”

oOo

“So, you courting my sister?” Barcain asked. He and Geralt were sitting at a table down in the tavern, waiting for Evie and Lydial to join them. They both had large mugs of beer in front of them.

The witcher looked at the ex-soldier for several long seconds and then nodded his head. 

“Yeah, I’d say I am. Is this where you perform the duty of the older brother and warn me about hurting her?”

“Nope,” he answered before taking a big gulp of his ale. 

“No?”

Barcain shook his head. “Let me ask you a question. Do I scare you?”

“Not in the least.”

“Exactly. Me threatening you would be as pointless as…men having nipples. Plus, it’s not like she’s a teenager who needs looking after. She’s a grown woman. She can make her own decisions. And…she told us about you saving her life multiple times in the last two weeks. Makes you a worthy bloke in my eyes. So, cheers, brother,” he finished with a smile and then downed his mug. “Want another?” he asked as he stood up to head to the bar.

“Still working on this one,” replied Geralt.

After Barcain returned to the table and sat down, Geralt asked, “Mind if I ask you something?”

Barcain shook his head. “Go ahead.”

“Evie mentioned that you were in the Nilfgaardian military for two decades. What made a history professor’s kid from Vicovaro want to become a soldier for the Empire?”

“Has Angel told you about our Uncle Malek?”

Geralt nodded. “A little.”

“Well, it was him,” replied Barcain, before taking another long pull from his mug of ale. “I’m sure that it wasn’t the first time that I ever saw him, but the first time that I can remember seeing him, I was about four years old. He was – and still is – the biggest man that I’d ever seen. And he was wearing his Nilfgaardian armor, with flowing black hair. He looked like a hero out of some mythical fairy tale. Every time he came to visit, he would tell us of some new adventure, which made him seem even more like a larger-than-life character. Though, to be honest, now, I don’t know if his stories were all true, but as a kid, I believed them all. And I can remember him wrestling with us, just having fun with us…Even though they were cousins, he was so different from our father.” He said the last in a softer voice, shaking his head. 

“In fact, it’s a little strange, looking back on it. Whenever he came to visit, he seemed to spend more time with Mum and us kids than he did with Dad,” he said with a shrug. “As I got older, when I found out that – like me - he wasn’t a true Nilfgaardian either, well…that resonated with me. I thought, if he could find a place to fit in there, then maybe I could, too. So, as soon as I was of age, I enlisted.”

Geralt nodded. “So, then, how’d you go from a career soldier to the only dh’oine in a tiny Aen Seidhe community?”

The mirth in his eyes suddenly evaporated. 

“Well, you wouldn’t-” and then he stopped and shook his head. “I was about to say that you wouldn’t believe the amount of prejudice in this world…but then I remembered who I was talking to.” He took another drink and then continued. “I was doing really well, getting promoted, making a name for myself. And all on my own merit. Never once mentioned to anyone that I was related to Uncle Malek. But, then…somehow, word got out about my ‘pointy-eared’ heritage.” 

He looked up at the ceiling for a bit and shook his head again. When he looked back into Geralt’s eyes, the witcher could easily see the anger burning within. 

“You know, Nilfgaardians are supposed to be too enlightened, too sophisticated for racism. But, they’re no different than anyone else. Promotions – promotions that I deserved – started to pass me by. Guys that I’d gone through hell and back with, suddenly forgot to invite me when they went out drinking. I’d finally had enough when I had to start taking orders from men ten years my junior.” 

Barcain took another long drink, and when he looked at the witcher, the fire in his eyes seemed to have disappeared replaced again by his usual good humor. 

“So, I decided to chuck it all and go visit Nain.”

“Seems a bit strange to me,” commented the White Wolf.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Just seems like an odd destination in order to avoid prejudice. Aen Seidhe aren’t known for their acceptance either. Your sister told me they used to call her a ‘mutt.’’’

He nodded. “Yeah, called me that, too. So, you’re right…most elves are prejudiced. Hell, every race thinks they’re superior to all others. But Nain is the best. And her Essean friends were always kind and welcoming. I did my best to avoid the rest.”

The witcher nodded his head. “And your grandfather? What was he like?”

Barcain’s countenance, again, changed immediately. His jaws tightened, and he narrowed his eyes at the witcher. 

“That’s not my story to tell. You’ll have to ask her.”

oOo 

As the four of them chatted and ate their dinner, Evie noticed Geralt’s eyes – behind the tinted glasses - routinely darting from her face to the other patrons around the tavern. She’d gotten used to that, though. She knew that he wasn’t ignoring her or being disrespectful. It was just his habit – a habit that had probably helped him stay alive countless times. Whether in the woods or in public places, she had learned that he was always on alert. She was wondering just how exhausting it’d have to be to live one’s entire life like that when she suddenly saw that something or someone had caught his attention. She was about to turn her head to gaze in the direction in which he was looking when he stopped her.

“Don’t turn around,” he said in a low tone. 

Before she could ask what was going in, he got up from his chair, tossed some ducats on the table, and whispered to the others, “Don’t wait up. I think I see a stranger from my past.” He then turned to Evie, “Come with me.”

As he moved nonchalantly to the front doors, Evie stood and quickly walked up behind him. When they exited the inn, without even turning his head, the witcher whispered, “Let’s pretend that we’re just a young couple in love…out for an evening stroll.” He then offered his bent, left arm to her.

“It’ll be tough, but I’ll give it a shot,” she teased as she put her right arm through his. 

As they strolled arm in arm through the streets of Ban Ard, she whispered, “You’re just using me to help you spy, huh? Not sure what to think about that.” 

The witcher could clearly hear the humor in her voice and smirked. “Yeah, who knew our relationship would actually be useful?” he asked rhetorically as he lowered his hand so that he could grasp hers. 

As they walked through the crowded square, Evie couldn’t see who they were following, but she didn’t ask. She was just doing her best to look and act natural. But it wasn’t difficult. She just did as he had recommended and pretended that they were out for a romantic evening. The witcher eventually led her across the main square and down a side street, and then he suddenly stopped. Evie felt a quick tug on her hand and turned to face her witcher. He took her in both arms and brought her close, his mouth next to her ear. To anyone watching, they were just two lovers stopping for an intimate moment. 

“What is it?” she asked in a whisper.

“We just passed a shop. He went in there,” he answered.

“How do you know? I didn’t see anyone go in there.”

My medallion twitched,” he replied softly. “Just follow my lead, okay?” 

They turned, and in front of them was a small, apothecary shop located on the bottom floor of a two-story building. A wooden door sat to the right of a clear window, which provided evidence to the merchandise within. On the other side of the window were glass jars filled with all kinds of plant leaves, flowers, stems, different parts from all species of animals, crushed spices, and other ingredients and substances about which the average Ban Ardian would be clueless. Evie had no doubt that her witcher could identify the name and purpose of each one. Above the door was small, wooden sign indicating “Bendiak’s Beneficial Blends.”

A small bell, nailed to the wall just above the door, rang as Geralt entered the dimly lit business. There were a few lanterns around the room helping give some much-needed light. Geralt noticed that there were no other customers in the shop, but he also noticed a doorway leading to the back of the store, and he wasn’t sure who – customers or workers - might be back there. Therefore, he decided on caution.

“Ah, my last customers for the day,” came a friendly voice from a back room. 

Then, through a doorway covered by a dark purple drape, walked a man of below-average height wearing a red fez cap and sporting a neatly groomed, salt-and-pepper beard over cherubic cheeks. His piercing, green eyes were topped with bushy eyebrows and partially obscured by light reflecting off his round spectacles. He was just finishing tying the strings of his stained apron in front of his substantial belly.   
  
“Fortuitous timing. I just returned from dinner. Anyhow, welcome to Bendiak’s Beneficial Blends. How can I help you?” the proprietor asked with a smile as he stood behind a counter.

Evie was reminded of some of the science labs she’d seen at university. There had to be dozens and dozens of glass jars – of varying sizes and color – all around the room. They were on every available shelf and flat surface, and some were even on the floor. She wondered at how this man could remember where everything was located, at just what kind of filing or classification system he used. 

“Greetings, Mr. Bendiak. My name is Ravix of Fourhorn, and this is my lovely bride, Angel. We’re newlyweds, here in Ban Ard on our honeymoon.”

“Ah, well, congratulations, my good man. Then…perhaps you’re here for delicate and discreet purposes?” he asked in a conspiratorial tone and with a wink. “A little help with keeping the iron in the sword?”

The witcher smiled. “No, no problems with that just yet…but at least now I know where to find help if I do. No, she and I were just discussing people that we used to know from Ban Ard. I told her that I once knew man with some really…unique skills. He walked with a limp and had a missing pinky finger on his left hand.” At hearing this, the man’s eyes widened just a touch and he took the smallest step back from the counter. “He helped with a particularly nasty wound on my thigh many years ago – a wound caused by a cockatrice. But you wouldn’t know anything about him, would you?” As he asked the last, Geralt reached up and lowered his tinted glasses, revealing his cat eyes. 

The store owner looked hard at Geralt for a moment. He then slowly moved from behind his counter and walked to the front door. 

“No sir, I wouldn’t know anything about that friend of yours. But it does sound like a fascinating tale. How about you and your lovely bride come back to my private quarters and we can discuss it?” he asked as he locked up the shop.

A nondescript man, wearing the attire of the typical Ban Ardian, walked past the apothecary just as Mr. Bendiak flipped the sign on the door to “Closed.” The man continued walking down the street in a casual manner until he approached a darkened alleyway several buildings down but that was still within line of sight of the shop. As he walked past the alley, he noticed a filthy vagrant sitting next to some empty boxes. As the man’s eyes met those of the vagrant, they gave each other just the slightest of nods and, then, the man continued walking along the darkened street before disappearing around the next corner.

oOo

Benedict Bendiak, better known as Benny to his friends, was a mage born with moderate magical power. However, he had maximized that talent to its fullest through hard work and study at the Ban Ard Magical Academy. His specialty was in the area of magical healing, but he dabbled in other disciplines, as well. He and Geralt had first met many decades past when the witcher was in Ban Ard to complete a contract on a particularly vicious cockatrice that was terrorizing the area. Benny, at that time a junior instructor at his alma mater, had waited for the witcher to leave the office of the town’s alderman – the primary contract giver on the cockatrice – and had approached the monster-slayer in the hopes of striking a deal. The cockatrice’s feathers, stomach, venomous glands, and other parts and organs were highly valuable and useful in the area of magical healing. However, in order to maintain their highest potency and usefulness, they needed to be harvested as soon as possible after death. Benny’s proposal to the witcher was to accompany him in the pursuit of the cockatrice – staying completely out of the way, of course – and then performing the necessary dissection of the monster once the witcher had completed the contract. Geralt had been reluctant to agree for he simply always worked alone and figured the meek sorcerer would cause more trouble than he was worth. However, the mage had offered the monster-slayer a substantial sum of money for the inconvenience. Given that the amount actually exceeded the contract itself, Geralt, with only a little hesitation, accepted the offer. In hindsight, it had been a fortunate partnership for both.

The contract for the cockatrice turned out to actually be a contract for three of the monsters – an especially large, angry mother-cockatrice and her two, young offspring. The miners in the mountains had disturbed their nests, and the quite protective mother had understandably taken out her displeasure not only the miners’ camps up in the mountains but also the citizens of Ban Ard down on the plateau below. The witcher had easily tracked the cockatrice to her nest, but once there, given the surprising presence of the two smaller – but still very dangerous – monsters, his original plan quickly evaporated. Benny’s plan of non-involvement crapped the bed, as well. They, obviously, both survived the ordeal, but Benny lost a little finger down the gullet of one of the beasts while the witcher suffered a horrendous wound on his left thigh. Geralt, to this day, knew that he would have bled out from the bone-deep gash had the mage not been present to administer some magical healing. Of course, the humble sorcerer – which Geralt considered to be an oxymoron - considered the two of them to be even given that the witcher had also saved his life during the cockatrices’ attacks. 

Introductions were made and, then, after a humorous retelling to Evie of how they had first met, Geralt asked Benny the question that had popped into his mind as soon as he’d recognized the mage having dinner back in the tavern. 

“What gives? I almost didn’t recognize you. New beard, new hairstyle, new glasses, new clothes – looks like I’m not the only one incognito.”

“Yeah…so, what gave me away?”

“The limp and the finger.”

The mage nodded. “Well, yes, I have changed my appearance a bit, but I’ll be honest, I’m not sure why. The people I’m hiding from didn’t even know what I looked like before.”

“Let me guess – witch hunters and Eternal Fire guards?”

Benny nodded again. 

It turned out that Geralt had been correct earlier in the day regarding his assumption about the Magical Academy. Six months prior, guards of the temple of the Eternal Fire, accompanied by a vast number of witch hunters and a large company of Redania’s finest soldiers had entered Ban Ard and immediately headed toward the magical school north of town. The sorcerers were able to keep the front gates barred long enough for most of the faculty and students to escape through emergency exits. But not all were so lucky. 

“Why stay here? Aedirn is just a few days’ ride south. You’d be out of Radovid’s reach there.”

“Radovid can go bugger himself. Ban Ard’s been my home for nearly a century. I’m not about to let him drive me away. Anyway, we may be under his rule now, but it’s only temporary. It won’t last.”

“So, until then, you’re just Benedict – the man to see to remedy a sore throat or a bland stew?”

“Please. I do just as much magic now as I did when the Academy was still open. My disguise is the worst-kept secret in Ban Ard.”

“Come again?”

“I’m just about the only mage left in town. My skills – especially my healing skills – are in high demand.” 

“And you’re not afraid of one of your neighbors turning you in for a reward.”

The mage shook his head. “My fellow Ban Ardians may be under Redania’s rule, but they’re not Redanians and certainly not followers of the Eternal Fire. They don’t have such a negative view of magic. They’ve always appreciated the presence of the Academy. It’s always brought a lot of prestige and, maybe more importantly, a lot of commerce to the community.” Then his face turned grave. “Plus, if there wasn’t already hostility towards the Redanians before they came to town, then seeing those whoresons burn some of the young adepts at the stake in the middle of the square certainly did it. No Ban Ardian would help those sons-of-bitches now. And if anyone turned me in, they wouldn’t live to see the next day.”

“I hope you’re right,” the witcher commented.

“As am I. But enough about me. I see I’m not the only one in disguise.”

The witcher nodded. “No offense, Benny, but…it’s safer for everyone if you don’t know the reason.” 

The mage raised his hands in mock-surrender. 

“Hey, just the way I like it. If I don’t know anything, then, if I’m ever asked, I don’t have to lie about it. The older I get the more I’m starting to prefer honesty…my memory is just getting too shoddy. It’s getting too damn hard to remember which specific lies I told to which specific people. It’s easier to just tell the truth. That said, is there anything I can do for you, though?” 

“Well, we’re trying to travel unrecognized, but…there’s not much I can do about my eyes and this scar, but I know that Yennefer used to concoct some kind of ointment that would – I don’t know – conceal imperfections or make her eyes sparkle. Something like that. Can you do anything along those lines?” the witcher asked. 

The mage peered at the witcher’s face closely and hummed slightly to himself. 

“Let’s head to my lab, shall we?”

oOo

“Be careful of the those,” Benny said, pointing at two potted plants to his right. “They’re just playing with each other, but they’ll take a chunk out of you if you get too close.”

Evie was wide-eyed as she looked around the mage’s lab. Off to her right, were two potted plants that looked and acted more like animals than anything out of the plant kingdom. They were two feet tall and each one had a very large snake-shaped head at the top of its stalk – a head containing no visible eyes or nose but a very visible mouth filled with tiny, sharp-looking teeth. They also had long, thick leaves midway up their stems, and they were slapping each other with them, much like a man would use his arms to defend himself. The two plants also appeared to be nipping at one another – like playful puppies – with their dangerous looking maws.

But the two plants weren’t even the biggest oddities in the room – at least in Evie’s eyes. On one table was some scientific-looking contraption with all sorts of tubes and glass beakers, which wasn’t strange in and of itself. What was unusual was that drops of some type of viscous liquid resting in a beaker on the table seemed to be defying gravity and dripping upwards into a beaker positioned above it. On a shelf to the left were a couple of glass or crystal orbs filled with colored, swirling gases. In an enormous aquarium on a back table were eight to ten brightly-colored fish that seemed to miraculously disappear before reappearing again several seconds later in a different area of the aquarium. Evie was eventually broken from her mesmerized state by Benny’s voice.

“Just put a little bit on your finger tip and then rub it on your scar.”

Evie looked over to see Geralt looking into a small mirror. He had a small, metal canister in his left hand and was rubbing something onto his scar with the index finger of his right. After a few moments, she saw Geralt start to nod his head.

“Not bad, Benny. I’ll take it. How long will this last?”

“Probably only three to four hours.”

“Alright. I’ll just have to buy several of these,” responded the witcher as he lifted the small canister in his hand. 

Benny shook his head. “That’s my last, and I unfortunately don’t have one of the ingredients needed to make more.”

“Okay. Do you know where we can get this ingredient?”

Benny had a smirk on his face as he nodded. “Oh, yes, I do…but it’s a little inaccessible at the moment. Some of my supplies I had to leave at the Academy when the Redanians showed up.”

Geralt just shrugged his shoulders. “Not a problem. Let’s just sneak in there and get what you need.”

“That could prove troublesome.”

“Why? Redanians guarding the gates? Trust me, they’ll never know I’m there.”

Benny shook his head. “No. The Redanians aren’t the issue. The problem is that there seems to be some unknown monster now inhabiting the Academy grounds.”

The witcher shook his head. 

“Of course, there is,” he growled. 


	14. Chapter 14

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 2

“What do you know about this monster, Benny?” asked the witcher.

“Not much. There’s only rumors. The alderman has done his best to keep a lid on it. Thinks it would hurt the city’s tourism business if it got out. Personally, I don’t think it’d affect it one way or another. I mean, every city has monsters, right? And depending upon the type of monster it could actually increase tourism. Some folks get their jollies from being frightened.”

“If it’s just a rumor, how do you even know about it then?” Evie asked.

“Well…the alderman isn’t exactly faithful to his wife, and he’s contracted a few… unhealthy reminders from those escapades. Diseases that - if his wife discovered – would be pretty clear evidence of his infidelity. So, he’s called upon my healing services a few times, and the man loves the sound of his own voice. Seems he’s as poor at keeping secrets as he is at keeping his dick in his pants. I don’t know…maybe he told me because he thought that since I used to work there, I’d have more insight as to what the monster might be. But, truthfully, I don’t.”

“Unfaithful to his wife, lying to the public about things that would probably be in their best interest to know. Sounds like Ban Ard’s got themselves a real politician. Congratulations,” the witcher commented, shaking his head.

“Wait…it gets better. It was the venerable Alderman Thacker’s idea that got people killed in the first place. A couple of months back, seeing that the Magical Academy was locked up and serving no one any good, he convinced the town council to confiscate it using some highly dubious town ordinances.”

“Why do you say they were dubious?” asked Evie.

Benny smiled. “Because the Academy doesn’t even reside within the town’s limits. They have absolutely no jurisdiction over it. But, given that witch hunters were still in the area, he knew none of us mages would openly object, right? Then, once the Academy was considered city property, he decided to rent it out to the highest bidder. 

“The damn fool. I worked there, and I don’t even know what all kinds of dangerous, magical secrets are still hidden behind those walls. Some of my former colleagues used to conduct some highly questionable experiments. And Thacker just decided to open it up to the public.” The mage was now just shaking his head.

“So, you’re telling me that the Redanians just let him open up the Academy again. Weren’t they the ones to lock it up?” Geralt asked.

“Oh, he had to get permission. The entire Ban Ard division is at the war front, but a company of Redanian soldiers – along with the temple guards and the witch hunters – now stays in their empty garrison. The Redanian company commander – named Yurimir – still allows Thacker and the town council to run the day-to-day affairs of the city, but he reviews all new ordinances. All the major business of the city goes across his desk. So, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s getting some kind of kickback from the Academy’s rental income.”

“Seems likely,” commented the witcher, nodding his head.

“Yeah…so, Thacker opens up bidding on the property, and you wouldn’t believe it, but Madame Spraven – owner of one of the town’s brothels - comes out on top.”

“Nice turn of phrase there, Benny. And let me guess, Madame Spraven and Thacker know each other well.” 

Benny nodded. “Intimately. So, about a month ago, the Madame and her girls go into the Academy, start cleaning up some of the living quarters to make them welcoming. A few nights later the first customers arrive. Then, the next thing we hear is that the Academy is locked up again. No explanation.”

“And the rumors?”

Benny shrugged. “You know how it goes. The attack was at night so it was too dark to see. Plus, it happened so fast that no one – at least no one living – can say for sure what it was.”

“So, there were survivors?”

“From what I hear, one of the working girls, but Thacker has her hidden away somewhere so she can’t tell anyone what she saw – all for the town’s good, of course. Though, she did talk to some of her friends before Thacker could sequester her. That’s the main way the rumors got out.”

“And no one’s gone back in? No one went in to investigate? The dead’s family don’t care?”

Benny nodded his head. “I heard that Thacker sent in a few of his men. When they didn’t return, he locked the gates. Posted a sign stating no entry allowed. He’s just going to pretend it never happened. Like I said, he thinks it’d make the town – and especially him – look bad if word got out. Though, I’ll be honest, by now, most Ban Ardians know. There’s just an unspoken rule to keep it to ourselves – certainly not let the tourists know. I think he’s just hoping that it will just go away on its own.”

The monster-slayer shook his head. “Yeah, because that always happens. Problems always just disappear on their own.”

“So, still interested in my concealing ointment? All you have to do is defeat some unknown monster in the Academy. Maybe you’ll even earn a special medal of commendation from the honorable Alderman Thacker,” Benny said with a smirk.

“Think I’ll pass. Got enough medals already. Guess I’ll just keep wearing my hood up.” 

Then, Benny’s face turned serious. “In that case, Geralt, I advise that you and your friends get out of town – as soon as possible. On the surface, it may look the same, but Ban Ard is different now – ever since our soldiers left. The old garrison commander was the real leader of the town. A bit of a hard-ass, law-and-order type, but…at least he kept this town – and Thacker - in line. But with him and his soldiers gone, Thacker now runs this place more or less however he sees fit. And he’s not a good man.”

oOo

“Why no interest in the monster at the Academy?” Evie asked in a whisper as they walked through the darkened streets of Ban Ard. 

She and Geralt had spent another hour in the mage’s underground lab catching up on both old times and current events before they decided to head back to the inn where they were staying for the night. 

“In different circumstances, maybe I would, but we have other priorities. Let Thacker clean up his own mess,” Geralt responded as he kept his eyes moving constantly about him. 

Benny’s warnings had Geralt on edge. He’d come across men like Thacker countless times in his life – men who in reality were no different, and perhaps even worse, than the common bandits that he’d killed in The Mariposa tavern two weeks ago. The only real difference was that, because of their position and status, they were viewed as being on the “right” side of the law, which made them even more dangerous since they were insulated and protected from any type of repercussions. Who could the citizens go to when they were being oppressed if it was their very own leaders, judges, and constables that were guilty of the oppression? Nothing made the witcher’s blood boil more than when those who were in positions of leadership perverted and abused that authority, whether it was parents, teachers, clergy, or civil servants. Thacker was just another in a long line of corrupt officials that proved that the world was without justice. It’s why the witcher had rarely felt any hesitancy about taking justice into his own hands. If he didn’t right the wrongs that he saw, then who would?

And, as if Thacker wasn’t bad enough, there was the additional presence of the witch hunters and the temple guards to deal with. The witcher had interacted with enough of them to know that Evie had been correct earlier in the day when she’d called them fanatics. Geralt knew that most people – and not just religious fanatics - were convinced that their beliefs about everything were right, and they’d be damned if they’d listen to anyone tell them that they were wrong about their religion, their politics, or their cultural views. The majority of folks simply refused to listen to anyone who even remotely espoused a differing opinion. In his time, he’d seen very few actual civil, respectful debates or discussions between opposing sides on, well, any matter. Most just did their best to shout their opponents down, not even giving them a chance to be heard. As opposed to taking issue with their opponent’s argument, they’d simply name-call and ridicule because that was a whole lot easier - and lazier - to do. Dissecting an argument actually required a person to, first, listen to the other’s point of view, and then use reason, logic, and facts to refute their faulty premises. And who had the time, the energy, or the ability for that? 

But, in spite of their hateful name-calling and their assaults on the opponents’ character, very few would actually kill over a difference in beliefs, unlike the militant branch of the Eternal Fire. Though, now that he thought about it, the witcher concluded that the lack of murder during heated, irrational arguments by the common man wasn’t because of any level-headed sense of tolerance or desire for understanding or even because of a moral realization that murder was wrong. It was, most likely, simply a matter of fear. If people didn’t kill those they hated, it was simply because they didn’t want to pay the consequences if they got caught. But the witcher knew what was in the hearts of men. Hell, just his simple existence had caused him to be on the receiving end of endless vitriolic diatribes throughout his life – and not just from religious zealots, but from children, little old ladies, and upstanding, sophisticated professionals of society. And during those moments, he could easily detect the murderous, black rage in their eyes. Given that he had that same rage in himself, it was quite easy to recognize in others. And he knew that, if they thought they could get away with it, they’d end his life in a heartbeat. Hell, he had the scars from a pitch-fork to prove it. Then, afterward, they’d simply rationalize that he’d obviously deserved it and it was clearly all of his fault in the first place, and then they’d go on their merry way. 

Thinking on the issue more, he was surprised that there wasn’t actually more murder in the world because he knew that it was just a tiny nudge from having murder in your heart to having murder on your hands. The witcher shook his head slightly as he came out of his thoughts. Speaking with Benny about the goings-on in Ban Ard had obviously put him in a dark frame of mind. Perhaps the mage was right - they needed to leave town as soon as possible. 

Geralt and Evie eventually made their way through the square without incident, through the first-floor dining area and bar of the tavern, and, then, up the stairs to their rooms. 

As they stood in front of the door to one of their two rooms, Geralt looked at Evie and said, “Well, this is a little awkward. Are you and I sharing a room together or…? We didn’t discuss it earlier.”

Evie smiled. “Well, Nain and I discussed it. And yes, you and I are sharing a room. I’ve slept by your side for the last two weeks, and I happen to like it there.” And then she grasped his hand.

The witcher looked into her eyes and nodded his head. “Yeah. I’ve gotten used to it, too. Before we go in, let’s see if they’re awake. I want to tell them that it’s going to be an early morning. I’ve got a bad feeling about being here.”

After getting a nod of confirmation from Evie, they both walked into Lydial and Barcain’s room. Geralt’s senses were immediately assaulted with deep snoring sounds and the stench of beer-tinged burps. Lydial was sitting in a chair with a candle flickering on a table next to her. She, unsurprisingly, had the Essean tome in her lap. Barcain, on the other hand, was sprawled spread-eagle out on the bed. 

“What the hell? Is he drunk?” Geralt asked.

Lydial nodded. “Yes. I don’t know what got into him.” 

“Obviously, a half a barrel of ale,” answered Evie. 

“Well, he’s going to be hurting tomorrow. We’re leaving before sun-up, okay?” stated the witcher.

“What’s wrong? Where have you been?” the elf asked.

Evie gave Lydial a short recount of their evening, ending with Benny’s warning to be on the road as quickly as possible. 

“Do we need to be worried? I mean, should we leave now?” Lydial asked.

The witcher nodded his head towards Barcain. “It doesn’t look like we could even if we wanted…but, no, I think we should be fine for tonight. We haven’t been in town more than nine or ten hours and nobody has noticed us – noticed me,” Geralt answered. “But I am very glad now that I changed my appearance.” 

He, then, looked over at Evie and then back at Lydial before asking with a smile, “Do we have time for a bed-time story?” 

Lydial grinned back. “Of course.”

That had become the running joke in the last four days since their hasty escape from the Aen Seidhe palace in Dol Blathanna. That first night, as they were sitting around a campfire, getting ready to sleep – or meditate in the witcher’s case - Geralt had asked Lydial to read him something out of the elven tome. The second night, he’d done the same. On the third night, when the witcher had asked her to read something from the book, she had looked at him inquisitively and had asked him, “Why are you so interested, Geralt?”

He had shrugged and simply answered, “Not sure. I guess I’m just curious. I don’t know anything about Essea or your religion.”

Lydial had smiled. 

“What’s the smile about?” he had asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she had replied. “I’m just pleased that you’re interested.”

oOo

_City of Hengfors_

In a secret, underground arena owned by one of the city’s most prolific crime bosses, a large crowd alternatively cheered and groaned as they watched the two combatants draw blood, one much more often than the other. Much more groaning than cheering could be heard in the arena, however, for the fighter who was the crowd favorite – the Mule of Malleore - had copious amounts of blood pouring down his face and onto his bare chest. He’d been the favorite for he stood at least a foot taller than his opponent and outweighed him by easily a hundred pounds. Almost everyone had placed money on the Mule dispatching his opponent within minutes. But, the smaller fighter had too much speed for the giant of a man, and he’d been peppering his face and ribs with rock-hard punches for the last ten minutes. And, unfortunately for the Mule, the small man didn’t look to be tiring out. 

The Ghost sat in a private box above the crowd and watched the fight with a small, amused smile creasing his face. It was a smile that he wore often, which also typically irritated those who saw it. It was a smile that said, “I know something that you don’t.” And his smile grew in proportion with the crowd’s groans. He’d put a large sum of money on the smaller man, and at the moment, he was trying to calculate – based on the favorable odds that he’d been given – what his overall winnings would amount to. His small smile faltered a bit when he realized he couldn’t figure out in his head what the exact total would be – math had never been his strong suit – but his smile quickly returned for he knew it was a lot. But, then suddenly, he saw the smaller man slip in a pool of blood on the floor of the arena. He fell down to one knee, and before he could get to his feet, the Mule was on top of him. And then the fight was over. Now, firmly in the Mule’s grasp, the smaller man stood no chance. 

Moments later, as the crowd cheered, the Ghost stood up disgusted and headed for the arena’s exit. He shook his head, reminding himself that he’d never been lucky – in either money or love - and questioned why he continued to keep betting on either despite decades’ worth of evidence that he should seek out other pursuits. So lost in his thoughts was the Ghost that he didn’t notice the hooded-figure follow him out of the arena. 

The Ghost was one of Hengfor’s minor crime lords, but, deep down, he believed that he should’ve ruled the city’s underworld. Decades ago, he’d started off as an assassin for hire, and he’d been the best. What no one knew – and still didn’t know – was that the secret to his success was his magical skills. He wasn’t particularly knowledgeable in many areas of the arcane for he’d been kicked out of the Ban Ard Academy before his education had progressed too far. Though, he had, like most elite magic users, learned the spells and elixirs necessary to slow down the aging process. However, there was one area of magic in which he’d been a natural - the art of casting illusions, which allowed him to blend in completely with the environment. That skill had been invaluable as an assassin. 

He’d eventually earned enough money to cut out his own little territory in Hengfor’s crime world, complete with his own stable of hoodlums and underlings; and both his skills and reputation as an assassin had allowed him to keep that territory for decades. But he’d never been able to expand his little empire for, frankly, he had no head for business. Though, he more often than not simply blamed his business failings on his accursed bad luck. That was easier than actually taking the blame on himself.

He was halfway home when he picked up the click-clack sound of heals striking the brick streets behind him. When he turned, the sounds of the footsteps stopped. He peered into the darkness but couldn’t see anyone or anything in the alleyway full of shadows. He reached up and pulled a knife with a twelve-inch blade from the scabbard on his hip. He turned and continued walking down the street, and when he came to the next corner, he turned to the right, stepped into a nearby shadow, and cast a concealment spell around him. And then he waited patiently for his pursuer. 

“Are we playing hide-and-go-seek, Oran?” came a haughty and familiar voice from behind him.

The Ghost quickly turned, his knife at the ready. Ten feet away, he could just make out the owner of the voice in the shadows. Then, the small figure stepped out into the moonlight and lowered the hood from her head. 

The Ghost stood there not saying a word, just glaring at the most-wanted witch in Redania.

“Bugger me,” he finally cursed.

“Now, Oran, is that any way to greet your little sister?” asked Philippa Eilhart.

  
  
oOo

Geralt shut and locked the door behind him and then turned around to look at Evie. She had lit a candle on the bed-side table and now stood in the center of their rented room facing him, nervously biting her lower lip, with one hand grasping the other in front of her. 

“Alone at last,” the witcher remarked while staring into her eyes. 

Evie inhaled deeply and nodded her head as she exhaled slowly, but the White Wolf didn’t say or do anything else other than reach up and rub his chin twice before dropping his hand back down to his side. She was looking back at Geralt, but for the life of her, she could not read what was going on behind those eyes. In just two weeks, she’d been able to learn some of his subtle and not-so-subtle emotional tells – anger, fear, mirth, and passion, but in that moment, his face was completely stoic, and it was unsettling for her. She wished that he’d say something because she had no idea what was about to happen. Then, she watched him as he slowly took three steps forward in her direction until he was standing in front of her looking down into her face. He moved both hands forward and grasped both of hers in his. Without saying a word, he moved her over to the bed, and with just the slightest nod of his head and shifting of his eyes, she knew that he wanted her to have a seat. Then, to her surprise, he let go of her hands and turned away from her. He grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it up close to the bed and sat down, looking slightly upward into her face.

“So…” he stated.

“Yeah…so,” she replied.

Geralt exhaled deeply and then continued. “You said that we should be honest and open with each other. You said that’s how relationships are supposed to work, right?”

“Right,” she responded, nodding her head tentatively. She still had absolutely no idea what he was about to tell her.

The witcher nodded his head. “Okay, here goes.” And then he took a deep breath. “This may come off as completely arrogant and very presumptuous on my part, but…I want to wait before we have sex.”

Immediately, Evie exhaled and let loose with a nervous laugh.

The witcher had a confused look on his face. “Is it that funny?”

“No. I was just…expecting the worst. I thought you were going to tell me that you had some kind of mutated…dragon penis or…that you had three of them. Something strange.”

“You are weird - do you know that?” the witcher said with a smirk.

“Give me a break. I’ve never dated a witcher before. I don’t know what kind of…equipment you have down there.” 

He smiled at that. “Fair enough. And my equipment is of the standard variety, by the way.” After a pause, he asked, “So…what do you think about what I said?”

Evie looked nervous again. “Why do you want to wait?”

Geralt shook his head. “I don’t know exactly. But I think it’s God…again. I just know that I sense something inside, telling me that we should. I’ll be honest, I don’t really want to. My entire being wants to tear your clothes off right now,” he said with a smile. “But...I think he’s telling me, ‘Wait.’ To wait until we are – I don’t know – I don’t know why he’d want us to wait.” 

After a pause in which he grasped Evie’s hands again, the witcher continued. 

“But I’m starting to see now that he’s been leading me for the last couple of weeks – maybe even longer, and I want to listen to him. My entire life, ‘bed’ has been easy for me, and it’s been the norm. But, obviously, none of my relationships have ever lasted. Now, I’m in no way saying that the reason the relationships didn’t work was because of sex, but…I think he’s showing me that if my normal, base instincts with regards to sex and relationships have repeatedly led me to make poor decisions that have never worked out, then… maybe I should do the opposite.” He paused momentarily before continuing. “And I do want this to work with you. So much so that I’m willing to try it his way.”

The witcher lowered and shook his head and laughed in exasperation before, then, looking back into Evie’s eyes. 

“If I’m honest…I’m very confused right now. I don’t know what to think or do. I’ve got a serious battle going on inside of me.” 

Evie squeezed his hands. “It’s simple, then. We wait. This is not what I expected at all,” she stated with a small, exasperated laugh of her own. “…but I would never want to hurt you in any way, to cause you to go against what your conscience or what God is telling you to do.”

“You’re not disappointed?”

Evie smiled. “In one way, yes. Like yours, my body is screaming out for you, but…waiting will just make it all the sweeter. Plus, I’ve seen first-hand the potential, negative consequences of rushing into things with someone you don’t love. I don’t want to ruin anything with you either. And now that you’ve mentioned it, waiting seems like the right thing to me, too.”

“Really?”

Evie nodded. 

“Maybe he’s starting to speak to both of us,” she said with a smile. 

oOo

Evie woke suddenly with a hand over her mouth. 

“Get up, now,” Geralt whispered urgently into her ear.

She came alert quickly and looked around the darkened room, wondering what time it was. She could no longer hear any noises coming from the first-floor bar so she figured that she’d been asleep at least two or three hours. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the witcher unsheathing his sword and facing the door of their room, which immediately made her jump from the bed and shuffle across the room to where her crossbow was located. 

She came up behind him and whispered, “What is it?”

“Something’s going on next door.”

The White Wolf paused at the door to his room and listened intently before opening it quickly and leaping into the hallway. But there was no one waiting to attack. There was no one there at all. He and Evie, then, moved to Lydial’s room, the door of which was slightly ajar. He clearly remembered that he’d shut it behind him when he’d left earlier in the evening. Just as he was about to open the door, the witcher heard footsteps coming from his right. He looked to see four men coming up the lone staircase. All four were heavily armed, with weapons drawn. However, upon seeing the witcher, they stopped where they were, neither advancing nor retreating – just glaring in his direction. Before he could even decide what to do about those four, his attention was drawn back to Lydial and Barcain’s room by muffled sounds coming from within. He reached up slowly with his sword and used the tip of it to, in-by-inch, push it open toward the interior of the room. As the scene behind the door came into view, he heard Evie breathe in quickly behind him. Both Barcain and Lydial were being held captive by at least ten men with knives, swords, and crossbows. 

Geralt’s eyes then shifted to a rather handsome man sitting calmly in a chair in the middle of the room facing the witcher. The elegantly-dressed man seemed to be casually inspecting his fingernails, but upon hearing the door open, he looked up, smiled and said, “Please, do join us, Witcher.”


	15. Chapter 15

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 3

It was well past midnight when the White Wolf strode purposefully out of the Ban Ard inn. He looked up briefly to see thousands of twinkling stars blanketing the night sky and then continued walking through the mostly empty, main square of town. All the while, the conversation with the alderman of Ban Ard was replaying in his mind. 

_“I know who you are so let me introduce myself. I am Willet Thacker. Welcome to my city. And make no mistake…it is my city. Nothing escapes my notice.”_

_“Is that right?”_

_“Obviously. I knew of your presence within an hour of you arriving here, and, then…you really grabbed my attention when you decided to visit our fair burgh’s only mage. How delightfully surprised I was to discover that you’re a witcher.”_

_Thacker then shook his head. “Poor, pitiful Benny. Tried to play the hero, but he eventually told us everything. All men eventually cave, Witcher. You just have to find the right spot to press.”_

_Then, the alderman smiled. “I wonder – will you play the hero, too?” His eyes then moved over to Evie. “I have no doubt that I can find your weak spot.”_

_The Butcher of Blaviken took in the situation with a critical eye. He deliberately peered into the eyes of each man in that small room. He knew that he could kill all of them but probably not without Lydial, Barcain, or both also losing their lives in the process. Thus, Thacker and his men’s demise would have to wait, but the monster-slayer was carefully burning their faces into his memory. Finally, his eyes rested back on those of the alderman._

_“What exactly can I do for you, Alderman Thacker?” asked the witcher in a low voice._

_The smile grew wider on Thacker’s face._

_“Ahh. It pleases me that you’re a sensible witcher. I knew I was taking a bit of risk…I mean, one never can be sure with your kind, heh? But I wouldn’t be where I am today without taking some calculated risks.”_

_When Geralt didn’t respond, his smile faltered slightly, but he continued._

_“What I want is simple. Bring me the head of the monster in the Academy, and then, I’ll let your friends go. Until then, I’ll provide them with very comfortable accommodations.”_

_Lydial stood behind the alderman with her arms tied behind her, a knife at her throat and another at her back. She noticed that the room was eerily silent. She looked first at Evie and clearly saw fear on her face, her granddaughter’s eyes darting everywhere within the small, confined space. Then, she looked at Geralt. She couldn’t read any emotion in his eyes, but they were staring straight ahead, boring into those of Thacker for several long moments. Finally, the Butcher of Blaviken spoke - in a voice that sent chills up Lydial’s spine._

_“Do you promise?”_

_“Pardon?” the alderman asked, shaking his head slightly._

_“Do…you…promise…to let them go…unharmed? the witcher asked slowly._

_Thacker paused for a moment._

_“Yes. You have my word,” he finally replied, the small smile, once again, returning to his face._

_The White Wolf nodded his head ever so slightly._

_“Then, cross your heart…and hope to die.”_

_The alderman looked into the witcher’s eyes, and then the smile on his face slowly and completely faded away._

oOo

“Damn it, Benny. I hope you look worse than you feel,” the witcher stated as he knelt down next to the portly mage, who was still tied to a chair. 

Both he and the chair were tipped over onto their sides, his right temple resting upon the floor of the apothecary’s back room. After sensing no one else in the store, the witcher sheathed his sword and then gently pulled Benny and the chair into an upright position. He cut the ropes around the mage’s ankles and wrists and then pulled a stoppered vial from a small pouch on his bandolier. 

“Here, drink this. It’ll help with the pain and swelling,” he said, handing the elixir to the battered sorcerer. 

In the last two weeks, since beginning his adventure with Evie, the witcher had found himself carrying a health potion for her at all times. He was very grateful at the moment for that newly-formed habit. 

As Benny’s shaky hand tipped the end of the metal vial upward to swallow down the potion contents, Geralt quickly looked the mage over. He had a swollen left eye and dried blood covering his nose, mouth and beard. As the witcher’s eyes scanned lower, he noticed the sorcerer’s bare right foot, and he hissed through his teeth. 

“Son of a bitch. What the hell did they do to you? Your foot looks like ground chuck.”

“Hammer,” stated the mage matter-of-factly through swollen and busted lips.

“Damn it…I’m sorry, Benny. This is my fault. I should have known better than to come into town at all. Hood down and I’m too recognizable; hood up and I look suspicious.”

Benny slowly shook his head. “No, Geralt. I’m the one to blame. This isn’t your town, and you didn’t know what Thacker was capable of. I totally underestimated him. He came in here with diarrhea of the mouth, making me think he was either a fool or that he simply trusted me. I see now it was just to get my guard down. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the damn snake lied about getting the clap those times just so he could get close to me.”

“You saying that you didn’t check that he actually had it?”

“Hell, no. I didn’t want to see his bits. I mean, who would lie about something like that?”

“Thacker,” Geralt stated simply.

“Yeah…right. He would,” he answered, nodding his head slightly.

“Well, regardless, your face is still my fault. If I hadn’t come to your shop…” he said, shaking his head. “Hell, I should’ve stayed in the mountains. I brought this on all of us with my stupidity,” argued the witcher.

Benny raised his hand up to his face and gently moved his nose back and forth to assess the damage. He then lowered his hand and looked at Geralt. 

“You know what - you’re right. It is your fault,” he said jokingly through a bloody, hideous-looking smile.   
  
The witcher looked him squarely in the eye and nodded slightly. “Well, I’m gonna fix it.”

“We both will,” replied Benny.

oOo

The White Wolf watched his friend struggle to get out of the saddle. 

“Stay on your horse, Benny…allow me,” stated Geralt as he dismounted Roach. 

The witcher, in the early-morning darkness, walked up to a large boulder embedded into the side of the mountain, reached into his pocket, and then began moving his hand back and forth in front him. Suddenly, the boulder vanished to reveal a large, pitch-black passageway. Geralt re-mounted Roach and noticed the look of surprise on Benny’s face. The mage peered at the tunnel and then back at the witcher. 

He finally asked with a touch of suspicion in his voice, “Since when do witchers have enough magical training to dispel illusions? Have you been taking lessons?” 

“Nope,” answered the witcher, and then he coaxed Roach forward into the darkness.

After they entered the passageway, the illusion re-appeared behind them, and Benny lit a torch. At that point, the witcher turned slightly in the saddle and faced his friend. 

“I’ve got a cheater,” he answered as he showed Benny what he had in his hand.

“An eye of Nehaleni? Where did you get that? They’re incredibly rare.” 

This time there was a lot more than just a tinge of surprise in the mage’s voice.

“Really?” Geralt asked with furrowed brows. “A sorceress friend gave it to me. She said that they were a piece of cake to craft so she just gave me hers.”

“Well, she lied…because they’re not. She must’ve wanted something from you pretty badly to give you that.” 

The witcher nodded slightly, thinking of Kiera Metz. “There’s no doubt about that. But…could it also possibly be that Aretuza was simply the better magical school than your academy? That they taught their girls better than you taught the boys?” 

Benny glared at the witcher. “I know that you’re under a lot of stress right now, and it’s clearly affecting your judgment. So, I’ll forgive you for that remark.”

Normally, all of this back and forth with his friend would have brought a smirk to the witcher’s face, but at the moment, he was too focused on the task at hand – but also too consumed with both anger and worry - for any mirth to invade his mood. In his century of living, he’d already learned the simple but, yet, deep relationship between one’s desires and one’s worries, and that evening’s events had only strongly reinforced that lesson. Since leaving the inn, his mind had recognized once again just how much his fears were intimately tied to what he valued the most. The last time that he’d experienced such profound fear had been last summer when he had been trying to save Ciri. And, as he looked back now, he saw that, after her death, while he may have been full of a whole host of emotions, fear definitely wasn’t one of them. And all because, during that time, he had simply valued nothing, not even his life. He realized that when a man doesn’t care about anything, then he doesn’t care if he loses anything, either. But once a man’s heart starts to cherish something – or someone - then inevitably anxiety will quickly start to creep in, too. If what he cherishes isn’t yet in his possession, then the fear will begin to whisper into his psyche, “You’ll never, ever get it. You’ll never hold on to what will make you happy. You must strive harder.” But Geralt knew that perhaps even more debilitating was what fear could do to the man who actually, eventually, did grasp ahold of what he cherished the most. The sinister voice would continually swirl in the mind, “You’ll never keep it. You’re going to lose it. You’d better hold on tighter.” But, either way, that fear destroyed a man’s peace of mind.

The truly ironic aspect of fear was that it, many times, was responsible for bringing about the very outcome the person was trying to avoid in the first place. He’d seen it countless times throughout his life. He’d, of course, seen it in battle – men trying to save their own skin would make incredibly dumb decisions ultimately leading to their deaths - but he’d also seen it in the more mundane areas of life. He’d seen parents who were so afraid of allowing their children to experience the trials and disappointments of the world that they’d keep their kids on the tightest of leashes. Of course, then, when the teenagers eventually left the home and took the punch-to-the face that life would inevitably deliver, they didn’t possess the necessary skills to deal with it adequately as an adult because their parents had robbed them of the opportunity of learning how face failure and heartache when they were younger. The parents’ fear actually made things worse for their children in the long term. And it was that same insidious voice of fear that had begun to whisper again in the witcher’s heart and mind in the last week, ever since he’d first started having feelings for the barmaid-historian from Vicovaro. A voice that sounded like a shout whenever he thought of Evie. 

Geralt knew that worry, in and of itself, wasn’t an entirely negative emotion. One positive aspect was that it could lead a person to prepare – physically, mentally, emotionally - in order to avoid whatever potentially unpleasant outcome they feared may come their way. That said, the monster-slayer also knew that fear was responsible for as many deaths as the most dangerous monster found in any bestiary. Fear could definitely interfere with one’s ability to use the rational part of the mind. It could paralyze a man, cripple his ability to think and to, therefore, act – to act quickly, decisively, and perhaps, most importantly, accurately and logically. Fortunately, if there was one skill the witcher had learned in eight decades of facing monsters and his own death on a very routine basis it was how to compartmentalize and overcome any fear he felt. Like any sane man, he, at times, felt fear. He had even learned to recognize and accept its presence, but he’d be damned if he let it affect his actions in any area of his life anymore. He hadn’t let it keep him from giving his heart to Evie, and he wasn’t about to let it stop him from saving her now. Those thoughts kept the witcher company as he and his sorcerer friend made their way down the hidden passageway through the mountain and towards the magical academy.  
  
By that point, an hour had passed since Geralt had found Benny bound and beaten in his shop. The mage needed a cane to help with walking, but just the fact that he was mobile was a testament to both the power of the witcher’s healing potion and also his own magical healing spells. 

After hearing Geralt’s summary of his interaction with Thacker, Benny had asked, “Do you honestly believe that he’ll just let your friends go after you kill whatever monster is inside the Academy?”

“Hell no,” the witcher had answered. “We’ll just have to make sure that we’ve got a Scorch card up our sleeve to play. Tell me everything you know about the man – even if it’s just rumors. I want to know what he holds most dear.”

“Well, there’s his horse,” the mage had replied.

The two men had discussed their plan all the way into the forest outside of the magical academy, with Benny leading them to one of the secret passageways that led in and out of the school. With the plan in place, all that was left was the execution, and the first step to it all was finding the monster. But the witcher knew that step, typically, wasn’t very difficult. In fact, it was usually the easiest part of the plan, for the monster, more times than not, found him first. 

oOo

“Are you sure you don’t want to head to my lab to grab the concealment ingredients?” asked the sorcerer in a whisper.

“Not a priority right now, Benny,” answered Geralt. “Monster first.”

“Right. Of course. We can go there afterwards…if there is an afterwards,” stated the mage nervously.

The witcher looked at his friend but didn’t say anything in response.

The two men had just exited from a hidden doorway located in an academy building that housed random supplies. Metal cauldrons were piled together in a corner. Disconnected bed frames and head boards lay against one wall, and extra tables and chairs were stacked everywhere within the room. They headed through the maze of equipment and furniture and approached the door that led to the academy grounds. Instead of reaching for the door knob, though, Geralt turned to his companion.

“Last chance to turn back, Benny. No need for you to come along. My friends…they aren’t your friends. 

Benny furrowed his brows. “Not yet, but you are, and friends help each other. So, not another word, got it?”

The witcher locked eyes with the mage. “Thanks, Benny.”

They continued to look at each other for just a moment longer before giving the other a slight nod of the head. Then, Geralt opened the door and led them out into the still-dark night. The witcher stopped on the cobble-stone pathway and surveyed the academy grounds. It had been many years since he’d last been inside the school’s walls, but other than the random gardens being overrun with weeds and the lawns being knee-high, not much looked different to his eyes. He recognized the dozen or more large, stone buildings situated in an orderly manner around the grounds. He knew that the multistoried structures housed the adepts’ living quarters and most of the classrooms and labs while the single-story buildings held the more functional aspects of the school – i.e., the dining hall, the laundry facility, the greenhouses, and the stables, where a variety of animals – both magical and non - had been kept back when the school was operational. The appearance and structure of all of these edifices were quite uniform. They were all plain and utilitarian, not possessing a lot of personality. 

However, there was one academy building that stood out from the rest. A dark castle, several stories high with three traditional-looking towers, was off by itself, separate from all the other buildings. It was a true architectural marvel. Because it was built right into the side of a sheer rock face of the Blue Mountains, it was impossible to tell where the castle ended and the actual mountain began. Originally, the castle had been the only building of the Ban Ard Magical Academy, and it had remained so for several centuries. However, as the human population grew and more and more magical users were discovered, the castle had to be supplemented. Thus, the reason for the other structures and the eventual wall that had been built around the entire grounds. In recent years, the castle had served as a location for graduations, special meals, and other prestigious events. However, it wasn’t just used for ceremonial purposes only. Almost all of the senior faculty – except for Benny and a few others - had lived in the castle, and the advanced mages, especially those dealing in the most arcane areas of magic, had conducted their most dangerous experiments in the castle’s labs, found either in the towers or the dungeons. 

Benny watched the witcher breathe in deeply several times. The monster-slayer, with his silver sword already in hand and several elixirs already coursing through his veins, began to turn his body in a slow circle. 

“What do you smell?” asked Benny.

Geralt shook his head. “Something feral. There’s definitely something not human here.”

“Great. Thought so. Can you tell its location?” whispered the mage.

He shook his head again. “The scent is all over the place,” he answered in a low voice. “But maybe I can track it.”

“Great. Thought so,” responded the sorcerer again sarcastically. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Over the next fifteen minutes, Benny followed the witcher as he made his way through the academy grounds, occasionally bending down to inspect the pathways and lawns and routinely pausing to sniff the air. The mage had extinguished his torch but was still able to see Geralt well enough from the illumination from the stars and the half-full moon that hung low in the sky. Eventually, they realized that they were heading in the direction of the dark castle, at which point the White Wolf stopped in the middle of the narrow, cobble-stone road.

“Our monster apparently likes clichés. Looks like it’s in there,” the witcher stated, nodding towards the ominous-looking edifice. 

He looked up at the tall spires of the centuries-old structure. The castle looked like it was right out of a ghost story. As his eyes roamed over all of its darkened windows, he couldn’t pick up even the slightest trace of light coming from within, but the odor was definitely coming from that way.   
  
“Of course, it is.” Benny then sighed. “Hell, I didn’t particularly care for this old castle even when I worked here.”

“Why’s that?”

“Just gave me the creeps. I always got the sense that it was alive. Always full of odd sounds. Made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Strange things always happening – suits of armor would disappear and reappear at some other location. Never figured out if someone was moving them as a lark or if they were doing it on their own. And there was no telling what my colleagues got up to in there.” 

“Swell.”

“Exactly. So…lead the way,” stated the sorcerer. “Like I said, I’ll be right behind you.”

The two men walked toward the steps of the castle. However, before actually getting there, Geralt suddenly stopped. He bent down and peered at both the ground in front of him and the steps that led up toward the castle’s front doors. 

“What is it?” asked Benny.

“Blood stains. Lots of ‘em. Some weeks old…but some fairly fresh, too.”

“Human?”

The witcher bent down even lower and inhaled deeply. 

“Mostly animal…elk or deer maybe. But I am picking up a trace of human blood, too.” He turned to look at Benny. “Do you know exactly where on the grounds the attacks took place?” 

The sorcerer shook his head.

Geralt stood up, his eyes focused on the castle’s entrance. Before moving towards the large front doors, the witcher looked up at the night sky one more time and noticed the faintest touch of light coming on. He could tell that morning would be arriving soon. The monster-slayer ascended the steps up to the front doors, being careful not to step in the drops of blood. He slowly opened the doors, but instead of entering, he paused and turned to Benny.

“Do you hear that?” the witcher whispered.

Benny shook his head. “No, but let me guess – creepy sounds?”

The White Wolf nodded in the affirmative. 

The sorcerer nodded his head, as well. “Great. Thought so.”

The witcher was a little confused by what he was hearing. The noises actually sounded like the roar or growl of some large feline creature, but he was pretty certain that neither mountain lions nor panthers lived in this area of Kaedwen. At least, it had been years since he’d seen any.

They moved carefully inside the castle, at which point, the witcher stopped again while Benny relit his torch. He looked around the large, main foyer - with its many hallways leading elsewhere - and breathed in deeply. 

“What is it? Lost the scent?” Benny asked in a whisper.

Geralt shook his head. “Just the opposite. It’s everywhere…so there’s no trail to follow.”

“So, what’s next?”

“Follow the noise…or the blood,” answered the White Wolf as he carefully moved forward.

Within a minute, the witcher paused and looked closely at the floor. He turned and whispered into Benny’s ear. 

“The blood trail’s split. Looks like the older human blood heads in that direction,” he said, pointing in one direction of the castle’s first floor. “The fresher, animal blood seems to be heading in the same direction as the noises,” he finished, pointing towards a staircase that only went down.

“Of course. The dungeons,” replied Benny, to which the witcher simply nodded. 

A few moments later, the witcher and mage were traversing down a circular set of stairs that led to the dungeons below. By this time, even Benny could pick up the strange noises. There was the occasional thumping sound that sent vibrations through the floor, as if something heavy was being slammed hard against a wall. This was interspersed with other muffled noises that the mage just couldn’t discern. The noises got louder and louder the lower they descended. They paused as they reached the ground floor. There was one hallway straight ahead while another ran into the darkness towards their left. While still on the first floor above, the sorcerer had informed Geralt that the main hallways of the dungeon formed the shape of a square, with multiple rooms located on both the outer and inner walls of the hallways. However, branching off the main hallways, there was a maze of smaller corridors where one could easily get lost. 

The witcher once again took in a deep breath. Given that they were down in a confined, unventilated space, the odor of the unknown beast was incredibly potent. Then, he noticed several torches housed in sconces along the dungeon wall. That, in and of itself, wasn’t unusual. However, what was strange was that in one of the torches he could just detect the tiniest, visible burning ember on the tip of a piece of straw. He walked closer to the torch and was able to pick up a distinct burning scent, as if it had held a flame several hours before. He furrowed his brows at the discovery, for this clearly changed his assumptions with regards to what he was about to face. The witcher didn’t know of any non-sapient beings that used torches, much less knew how to light them.

The two men continued to walk down the darkened hallway, getting closer and closer to the door, behind which originated the mysterious noises. Geralt’s back was to the wall as he side-stepped down the wide corridor. As he approached the door in question, his medallion vibrated for what seemed like the twentieth time since entering the castle. The wolf-head was picking up a lot of residual magic from the centuries-old edifice. There was no telling how much magic had just seeped into its walls over the years. Either that, or maybe Benny was right, and the castle itself was actually a sentient, magical entity. Geralt had seen stranger things in his life. Just last year, outside of Urialla Harbor on An Skellig, he had come across a magical tower with a defense-system that actually spoke. Made it seem as if the tower had a real mind of its own. 

When the monster-slayer got to within fifteen feet of the door, he suddenly stopped.

Benny heard the witcher whisper, “What the hell?”

The sorcerer looked down and saw three kids sleeping on the floor right in front of the door. To his eyes, they looked to be teenagers. It appeared as if they had been leaning back against the wall opposite the door and had, at some point, fallen asleep. The oldest of the three looked to be in the middle, and he was still, more or less, resting upright, though his head was slumped forward. One was curled up in a ball on the stone floor with her head resting in his lap. The third was sitting next to the oldest and had fallen over, his head leaning against the shoulder of the first. 

The witcher looked at the scene and then moved forward slowly with stealth. As he approached the iron door, he noticed that there were several metal bars across it, ensuring that whatever was in the room stayed there. His medallion vibrated lightly as he stood in front of the door. The witcher was fairly certain that it was twitching from whatever was in the room and not from the three, mysterious teenagers sleeping in front of it. In spite of that, he still gripped his sword at the ready as he gently kicked the heel of the middle kid’s shoe. 

“Wake up,” he commanded as he kicked the boy’s foot again. 

Suddenly, the teenager opened his eyes. Upon seeing Geralt - and particularly his cat eyes reflecting in the light of Benny’s torch – he yelled and scrambled to his feet, causing the other two to crash to the dungeon floor. 

“Relax. I’m not here to hurt you,” stated the witcher, and though he didn’t sheath his sword, he did lower it to his side. By this time, the other two were awake and were both standing next to, and slightly behind, the young man.

“What’s behind the door? And how in the hell did you trap it?” the monster-hunter asked. 

Before the boy in the middle could answer, the girl to his left blurted out, “Who are you? Why are you here?”

Geralt wanted to keep things calm so he decided to answer her questions. 

“I’m not going to harm you. I’m Geralt of Rivia…a witcher.”

“A witcher?” she asked rhetorically with fear in her voice. “Lukas, he’s here to kill them. You can’t let him.”

“Please, sir, you don’t understand. Please don’t go in there,” the young man – Geralt assumed Lukas – implored.

Just then, Geralt heard several knocks coming from the metal door behind him and his medallion vibrated again. He noticed that the three kids looked nervously at one another. He listened closely and realized that all of the other noises coming from the room had ceased. Moments later, the knocks were repeated. It was clear from the cadence of the knocks that they were some type of signal. 

“Move down the hall,” he ordered to the three. “Benny, watch them.”

The sorcerer moved toward the three. “Come on, this way.”

The Butcher of Blaviken then turned to face the room. After the third knock, he reached forward with his left hand and unbarred the door. After lowering the last barrier, he quickly moved to his right and raised his weapon as the door slowly opened into the hallway. As the witcher’s medallion vibrated hard against his chest and a large, hairy creature on two legs exited the room, the girl ran past Benny and began yelling.

“No! Don’t kill him!”

She ran past the monster and stood in front of it, facing the witcher, her arms spread out wide. The beast turned and upon seeing the White Wolf, with sword drawn, let out a menacing roar. But with the young woman between them, it didn’t advance toward the monster-slayer. Geralt stood still, staring into eyes that were quite similar to his own. The creature stared back for several tense moments, during which time the witcher’s eyes scanned the beast. It stood well over eight feet tall, with short, tan hair covering its entire body - a body spotted in several areas with fresh blood. At the end of each appendage were wide paws with visible claws. Its hair fell down past its shoulders like a lion’s mane, its snout had long whiskers on the end, and its snarling mouth was filled with a set of intimidating, clearly carnivorous teeth. The witcher could see that the monster was obviously a cross between a man and some type of large, predatory cat. Finally, Geralt broke the silence.

“More blood doesn’t have to be shed. I’m willing to talk.” 

The creature let out a low growl. It continued to stare at the witcher before finally, slowly turning towards the door that it had just exited. It glanced quickly at Benny and then shut the door and barred it closed. Then, faster that the sorcerer thought possible, the creature moved like a flash. It pounced at the mage and then sprang up behind him. Suddenly, Benny felt his head in the monster’s vice-like grip. He felt five sharp claws digging into his scalp, pulling his head slightly back, and the other five claws were at his throat, breaking the skin of his neck.

In a strange, deep voice, the monster replied, “I’d have been more inclined to believe that if you had sheathed your sword. Make one move, and I’ll rip his throat out.”

The hallway was deathly quiet except for the four humans’ heavy, adrenaline-fueled breathing. 

Benny was trying to make eye-contact with the witcher, but the monster-slayer’s eyes were transfixed on the beast. The mage finally broke the silence.

“I’ve lived a long life, Geralt. So, screw it…do what you gotta do.”

At that, the Butcher of Blaviken locked eyes briefly with the sorcerer, gave a slight nod and then glared at the beast. He twirled his sword to his side and then gripping the hilt in both hands, brought it up to his right shoulder.

“Remember this,” growled the monster-slayer, staring into the beast’s eyes. “I gave you a chance to parley…so everyone’s blood will be on your hands.”

“Wait! Wait!” 

The yell, coming from the other side of the monster, echoed throughout the hallway. The eldest teenager, Lukas, jumped from behind the beast, moved quickly past it and the girl, and stood in between Geralt and the rest. 

“We don’t have to do this!”

He then turned and faced the monster.

“Let him go, Rien. Please,” the young man implored. “What you did for us will be all for naught if we die in this dungeon. And you know that you’re about to change…any moment now.”

The eyes of the lion-like monster shifted back and forth from the boy to the witcher, as if deciding on which course of action to take. Several tense moments passed and, then, suddenly, Benny decided that if he was going to die down in that dungeon, then he was going out his way and not as a whimpering hostage. He quickly raised his right hand and thrust the torch over his shoulder and into the face of the beast, who howled and jumped back. Seeing this, Geralt instantly cast an Aard Sign forward, blowing the two teenagers off their feet and into both Benny and the beast. The four bodies fell to the floor in a heap. Immediately, the witcher was on top of the monster, and just as he was about to thrust his sword downward and through the creature’s face, he saw that it had transformed. No longer was there a monster but a young man of average height, with long, blond hair and a completely nude, muscular body. 

Benny disentangled himself from the pile of bodies and brought his hand up to his neck. He examined it, and seeing only a few drops of blood, he let out a sigh of relief. He smiled weakly at the witcher.  
  
“I thought I was going to lose more than a finger that time.”

Geralt nodded at the comment, but he never took his eyes off the man beneath him. And his sword was still poised at the ready, the tip of the blade just inches from the man’s neck.

“Feel like talking _now?_ ” the witcher asked with a snarl. “Or, do I have to beat your ass?”


	16. Chapter 16

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 4

  
_Ban Ard; a month earlier_

Gretel knew two things about herself – that she had always enjoyed sex and that she had always possessed a vivid imagination. The latter she had discovered and developed as a child; the former as a teenager. Her parents had married young, and she’d been born shortly after. However, she’d never known her father, as he had been a casualty in one of the countless battles between Kaedwen and Aedirn over the Lormark - the disputed land of Upper Aedirn that the two countries had been warring over for centuries. Her birth had been very difficult and complicated for her mother, leaving the woman unable to conceive again. Gretel had, therefore, never had any younger siblings to play with despite the steady flow of boyfriends that entered and left her mother’s bedroom. She had grown up mostly alone and, thus, had been forced to rely on her imagination to keep from being so lonely and bored. She spent countless hours playing by herself - and, later, as she got older, while doing chores - day-dreaming that she was a beautiful princess in a world full of evil witches, dark castles, dangerous monsters, and, of course, daring and dashing knights. 

She fell in love at the age of eleven with Heinrich, the first boy to show her any kind of real attention. They began having sex a couple of years later, and they married at fifteen, just like her parents. But in a cruel twist of fate, she had, just like her mother, become a war-widow several years ago when, once again, Kaedwen – including Heinrich and the rest of the Ban Ard troops - invaded the Lormark. At that point, there were several paths she could have taken to deal with her grief and to move on with life, but she’d learned too well from her mother, and she’d begun using sex to combat the loneliness, pain, and emptiness that she felt inside. Not coincidentally, she soon rediscovered the vivid imagination that she’d developed as a little girl, pretending with each encounter that she was still in the arms of her beloved Heinrich. It was still something she practiced many years later as a prostitute in Madame Spraven’s Ban Ard brothel. Though, over time, she had also begun to supplement that imagination with a steady and daily dose of fisstech. One’s imagination could only do so much for so long, after all. 

Gretel, her body still covered in sex-induced sweat and her mind still slightly addled with narcotics, led three men down the backstairs of the newly-converted brothel and towards the magical tower on the east side of the Academy grounds. She knew that, technically, she wasn’t supposed to the leave the whorehouse with clients – and certainly not without Madame Spraven’s approval - but she had been curious about the dark and mysterious castle since laying eyes on it less than a week ago, and none of her friends and co-workers would accompany her on a proposed adventure within. Given that one of the three men was her last customer for the night and given that he’d bought her services for the hour and had only used a quarter of that time, then what better way to spend the last forty-five minutes on the clock. It certainly beat having him on top of her again.

Unbeknownst to her, the three men – her client and his two friends - were witch hunters visiting the brothel incognito. They were there not in their normal attire, for as official members of the church of the Eternal Fire they were not supposed to consort with prostitutes. However, throughout their service to the church while in Redania and, especially, while traveling through Kaedwen, that had never stopped the three “pious” men before. Though, they did have enough sense to hide their sexual proclivities from their fellow brothers of the Flame. They didn’t want to ruin a good gig after all – actually getting paid to kill magic users, and with no repercussions at that. They had agreed with Gretel that a night-time romp through the castle was a grand idea. Just from the looks that they gave one another, it was clear that they were all thinking the same thing – that the whore might give all three of them a freebie once they got her alone in the creepy palace.

The four entered the dark castle as quietly as their drug-impaired brains would allow. They had one small torch among the group, and they were all clustered tightly around it. As they investigated the magical foyer and hallways, with the three witch hunters all carrying swords in their hands, they kept up an endless stream of whispering and non-sensical laughter, followed by one of the four immediately shushing the others. Eventually, they came to a room on the first floor with the door closed. They slowly entered and were shocked to see a gaggle of kids all sleeping on mattresses spread throughout the room. 

“What do we got here? Some witches left behind?” asked one of the witch hunters loudly, now more alert than before and pointing his sword at the children, who were all suddenly awake and staring wide-eyed at the intruders. 

Some were slightly in shock and cowering with their covers in front of them while a few – mostly the older ones - had jumped from their beds and were poised for battle. 

“Uh huh…and a pretty one at that,” answered his compatriot. 

In the torch light, a teenage girl’s long blond hair had caught his eye, and he took several steps toward her and grabbed her arm, causing her to scream. 

“Don’t touch her!” yelled one of the male teenagers, bringing his hand down violently and knocking the witch hunter’s hand away from the girl. 

That was all it took for chaos to ensue. Swords were swung, screams rent the air, and blood was shed. Quickly, the one-sided skirmish was over, and two teenagers lay slain on the floor, two others were wounded, and the girl was firmly in the grasp of the witch hunters. Gretel had backed away during the fight and was trembling, with her back firmly against the wall near the door of the room. Suddenly, she heard an incredibly loud and menacing growl next to her, but with the torch laying on the floor in the middle of the room she couldn’t see what was in the doorway. And, then, the “thing” leapt into the room and began to tear the three witch hunters to shreds. The prostitute with the vivid imagination no longer needed it. She watched in silence as blood flew through the air and as screams of fright and agony and monstrous roars filled the room. In that massacre, no one saw her flee the premises just seconds after the nightmare had begun. 

oOo

The witcher and the sorcerer sat on one side of a large table. The soft, morning sunlight shone through large windows, illuminating the castle’s banquet hall. On the other side of the table was Rien, surrounded by eight kids, either sitting next to him or standing behind him. Geralt guessed that the kids were in the age range from perhaps four to sixteen. The two youngest ones sat in the laps of older ones, their small arms clinging tightly around necks, seeking a sense of comfort and safety. They all seemed to be a bit frightened and overwhelmed by the excitement of the morning and by the appearance of the two strange men sitting across from them. But there was one boy of around age seven or eight who didn’t look nervous at all. He sat in a chair quietly, just staring at Geralt. Every time the witcher looked over at the boy, he would be gazing right back at the witcher, his eyes taking in everything about the monster-slayer – the swords on his back, the medallion on his chest, his armor, his eyes, and his scars. Geralt noticed that the boy had an old-looking scar that ran across the bridge of his nose and diagonally across his left cheek. 

Geralt and Benny had just finished listening to the story of how Rien had saved the orphans and particularly Tressa - the pretty, blond teenager - from the witch hunters that night four weeks ago. 

“Kill me if you want, Witcher,” said Rien, with still a trace of anger in his voice. “But then you can take over the responsibility of looking after them – protecting them, feeding them.” 

Ban Ard was no different than any other town, especially in a world ravaged by wars and monsters, and it, thus, had its fair share of orphans. Six months ago, about a dozen of them had decided to sneak into the abandoned magical academy, looking for both food and a place to live that was safer than the dangerous back alleys of the city. Upon finding the empty living quarters and dining hall still stocked with food, they thought that they’d found nirvana. For the next several months, all was well, but when Thacker re-opened the academy grounds, the orphans hastily and quietly relocated into the castle. Madame Spraven’s girls – with the help of many of Thacker’s men - came in and took over the living quarters and dining hall, and with access to the food no longer available, the group of orphans began to grow hungry. After discussing their plight one night, they were incredibly surprised to find the next morning a freshly killed deer in the middle of the main foyer. They were suspicious at first, but the hunger overcame their suspicions, and they quickly took it to the castle’s kitchen to dress and cook it. For the next week, they searched the castle looking for their benefactor but with no luck. He had finally showed himself when the witch hunters attacked, and for the last month, he had been supplying food for the group as needed.

Geralt looked at the young man. He appeared to be in his early to mid-twenties, but given that he wasn’t one hundred percent human, then there was no telling his actual age. He had some fresh bruises and wounds on his forearms and face, and Tressa, the pretty blond, sat very close to him. 

“I don’t plan on killing you, but I’ve got a problem…because I need your head,” responded the witcher. Upon seeing the look of fear – or, in Rien’s case, anger - on several faces, he then proceeded to explain what he meant. 

After hearing Geralt’s story, Rien looked the witcher in the eye and nodded. 

“I’m sorry for your predicament, but I don’t see how you can solve it without my death.” 

“No! That’s not going to happen, Rien. He said so,” interjected Tressa while squeezing his forearm. She then turned to the White Wolf. “You said so, right?” 

The witcher could easily see the desperation on her face and in her voice. 

He nodded. “Yeah. I only kill monsters that deserve it. And as far as I can tell, you don’t fall into that category,” Geralt replied. “At least, not yet,” he thought to himself.

“So, then what are we going to do?” asked Lukas, the oldest of the orphans.

“You? Nothing. We-” and the witcher nodded towards Benny,”-already had a plan before we got here, but now…I may have another idea. But it’ll involve you,” responded the witcher, looking at Rien. And then he told them his plan.

Rien nodded his head. “It could work. There’s only one problem. Afterwards, people may start coming back in here, using the Academy again, and for the foreseeable future, we can’t have that.”

“And why’s that?” asked Benny.

Rien’s eyes shifted to the mage. “Because there’s another one of me downstairs. And he’s not safe at all right now.”

“Great. Thought so,” the sorcerer said and then sighed. “Just so we’re clear – what exactly are you?” asked Benny.

Rien slowly shook his head. “That’s a good question. Truth is…I don’t rightly know.”

“What do you know?” asked the witcher.

“I remember waking up, several years ago, in the dungeons down below one day. Based on my size, I was probably fourteen or fifteen, but I had no memory of my past or how I got here. Over the years, bits and pieces of my childhood have come back, but they’re blurry. I can’t recall a lot of details. I can remember that I had loving parents and siblings, and I can even remember vaguely what they look like, but I don’t remember their names or where we lived.” The young man shook his head. “I just don’t remember how I came to be like this. I don’t know if it was a curse, or if I was bitten, or if I was the subject of some magical experiment. I just don’t know.”

“Geralt, you’re the expert. What do you think?”

“Not sure yet. Let’s go see the other one…the one downstairs.”

Five minutes later, Geralt, Benny, and Rien were back down in the dungeons looking at a teenage boy, Nikolai, lying on a mattress in the middle of a foul-smelling room. There was blood - along with some feces - all over the floor and a shredded and ripped-up carcass of some type in the corner of the room. The adolescent was naked, with bruises and scrapes over much of his body.

“What the hell is going on? What’s wrong with him?” asked Benny. 

“During that night battle a month ago, he and I both got cut by those men’s swords. Somehow, my blood got into his veins, and I guess…my curse…my gift – whatever it is – is carried in my blood because just the smallest amount of it was, obviously, enough to change him. At night, he unconsciously converts into his lion form, and when he’s in it, he’s mostly uncontrollable. I was told that I was like that at first, too.”

“Who told you?” the witcher asked.

“Zollicoph. The mage that…either took care of me or was my captor – depending on how you look at it.”

Upon hearing the name, Benny grunted. 

“What do you know, Benny?”

The sorcerer shook his head. 

“Z. and I didn’t hang around in the same circles. He was much more powerful than I was…and studied and experimented in some pretty dark magic.” 

The White Wolf nodded and then turned back to Rien. “You said that you used to be uncontrollable? What changed?”

Again, Rien shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. I guess that…in time, I just started to learn how to control the animal side of my mind – even when I was in a converted state, which only happens at night, by the way. At first, every time the sun went down, I’d transform, no matter what. And when the sun came up and I changed back, I couldn’t remember anything that had happened that night. Eventually, though, I got to the point where I could control if I transformed or not, even after sunset. And, now, when I am in my converted state, I can still think rationally, though I’ll admit that my animal instincts and aggressiveness are much more prevalent. I’ve also gotten to the point where, now, when I do change back into my human form, I can still remember what happened the night before. The only time that I can’t control the transformation is during a full moon. I change then no matter how much I fight against it.”

“So, what are you doing with him?” asked Geralt.

“I’m trying to train him, help him. At first, Zollicoph did a lot of experiments with me to try to help me learn to control it. Some were unpleasant, but the meditation wasn’t so bad. I honestly don’t know if any of that worked or if I just finally adjusted and learned on my own over time. This is just a guess, but maybe, when the lion-blood first enters the body, it’s like we’ve been reborn…since we’re, technically, a new creature.” Rien then just shrugged. “Perhaps our minds revert back to an infant state, and it just takes time for the human part of the brain to fully assimilate the lion side of us and to develop to the point where it can think critically again. Maybe that’s why I have trouble remembering anything clearly from before – kind of like how no one can remember events from when they were babies. Whatever the explanation, right now, Nikolai’s still in his ‘infant’ state. Like I said, I don’t know much about this, but I’ve spent every night with him for the last month in our lion-forms trying to communicate with him.”

“Is it working?”

“Yeah…I think so. At times, he’s still out of control and we end up…rough-housing. That’s why we’re covered in bruises and scratches, but, yeah, he’s already getting better. There are times when he’s actually calm, and when I make eye-contact with him, it’s like I can almost see the human part of his mind trying to communicate with me.”

“What’s with the mess?” asked Benny, nodding his head at the interior of the room.  
  
“During the day, he’s comatose. I was told that I was like that, too. This is another guess, but perhaps, early on, even when the body is human, the lion part is still in control of the brain, which just causes everything to malfunction and shut down. Our maybe his mind and body are so stressed from the transformations that it simply has to go into a state of complete rest during the day. I don’t know. Anyway, because he’s out during the day, the only time we can feed him is at night. So, I’ll bring him a deer or elk carcass every few nights. We usually clean up in here first thing in the mornings – but you two came along last night.”

The witcher didn’t look abashed at all by the accusation and simply asked, “So, what’s your best guess? When do you think he’ll be able to control it – like you can?”

Rien shrugged. “I’m hoping within a year…but, it’ll probably be closer to two.”

“Damn it,” the witcher said after a sigh.

“Exactly. That’s why the town folk coming in here would not be good for anyone. I need someplace safe and out of the way to work with him for, at least, the next twelve months.”

“Geralt, do you think this is a curse?”

“Maybe. It sounds like he’s a werelion.”

“You mean, like a werewolf?”

The witcher nodded. “Yeah. Lycanthropes are the most common form of shape-shifters, but there are other types of were-animals. I’ve read about a few, but to be honest, I thought they were all extinct.”

“If it’s a curse, can you lift it?”

“Rien’s curse, possibly. But not the boy’s.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I’ve only ever lifted one werewolf curse, and I needed his consent and cooperation during his converted form to do it. I’m not going to get that with the boy.” He then turned to Rien. “And I’m guessing, at this point, since you’re helping him, you don’t won’t me to even try and lift your curse. Which, if I’m honest, I’m still not a hundred percent sure it even is that. Your condition could be due to magic.”

Rien shook his head. “No. At least for now, I need to stay this way to help Nikolai.”

“Then, what are we going to do?” asked Benny.

They both looked at Geralt, who didn’t say anything for the longest time. He was staring at the dungeon floor, smoothing down the stubble on his face absent-mindedly, as if lost in deep thought. Finally, he nodded, exhaled, and looked up at the Rien. 

“I know of a place that’s safe and remote. No one should find you there. But it’s a bit of a trek.”

oOo

Near midnight, there was a knock on the closed door.

“Enter,” responded Thacker, sitting comfortably behind the desk in his office in the town hall.

One of his men entered but stopped short upon seeing a young woman down on her knees in front of the alderman. Thacker then gave the girl a light slap upside the head.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” he stated, glaring down at the woman, who then proceeded to go back to the business at hand.

He then turned his attention to the messenger. “Yes, Liam, what is it?”

“The, uh, witcher is here.”

“Excellent. With the monster’s head?”

“Umm…I don’t know. He’s got somebody with him, but I didn’t see any monster – head or otherwise.”

Thacker let out a frustrated sigh. “Very well. Riley, that’s enough. We’ll finish up later. Take the back stairs.”

Less than five minutes later, the alderman walked through the back door of the town hall’s law enforcement office, a large room with several desks and tables and three jail cells off to one side of the room, two of which held prisoners. For the last twenty-four hours, the female elf had been on her knees, apparently in prayer, while the hung-over man had mostly slept on a cot, his arm over his eyes. But, now, Thacker noticed that both of them – along with all of his men - were standing up staring at the office’s front doorway. His eyes moved in that direction to see the witcher, both swords on his back and his wolf-head medallion twinkling in the light from the lanterns hanging along the walls of the large room. Standing in front of the witcher was a young man with both arms behind his back. He wore nothing but tattered pants, and his head was slightly bowed, his long hair partially obscuring his face.   
  
“Where’s Evie?” asked the Butcher of Blaviken, staring down the alderman.

Thacker smiled. “Oh, someplace safe…and secret…as an insurance policy. You didn’t think I’d actually trust you, did you? And I see that I was right not to. We had a deal, Witcher. I asked you to bring me the head of the monster – not some vagrant.”

“I’ve brought you his head…it’s just still attached.”

“This is the monster?” Thacker asked incredulously. 

The White Wolf didn’t bother to answer. He was peering closely at every man in the room. Then, the alderman saw him slightly nod to himself.

“Witcher, I asked you a question. I expect an answer,” demanded Thacker with authority.

The witcher still didn’t respond. The silence was finally broken by Rien, who said just a single word.

“Geralt?”

“All of them but Thacker,” answered the monster-slayer. “Benny.”

Suddenly, the mage appeared out of thin air on the other side of the witcher. With a quick movement of his arms, all of the lanterns in the room were extinguished, and the room fell into almost complete darkness. Immediately, Thacker heard an enormous growl coming from the front door, but before he could even move, he felt a vicious punch to the gut, which doubled him over and caused him to fall to the floor. As he lay there, the wind completely knocked out of him, the shouts of his dying men and the terrifying roars of the monster penetrated his brain through the fog of pain. 

In the utter blackness, Thacker’s men stood little chance against the werelion, who could see clearly in the dark. They swung their swords blindly, but Rien’s speed and agility made it seem as if they were under water. He evaded their blades and then would powerfully swipe his deadly claws across faces, throats, guts, and groins. He was onto his next victim before the previous one’s heart had completely stopped beating. Geralt watched all of this while standing over the alderman, his boot pressing down on Thacker’s neck, keeping him pinned to the floor. One of Thacker’s men turned and began running towards the back door of the office, near where the witcher stood. Before he could get there, Geralt cast an explosive Aard Sign in his direction, knocking him completely off his feet and over a nearby desk. Rien was on the screaming man an instant later. 

And then, suddenly, it was over. Thacker noticed that the yelling had stopped, but the screams seemed to still be echoing off the stone walls of the room. Then, his ears picked up a low growl coming his way. He looked up to see a large shadow above him, and then it dropped down to the ground closer to him. It was so near that he could feel the heat radiating from its body. Its face was right next to his, its menacing, low growl filling his ears, and its hot, animal breath blowing on his face. 

“Here’s your monster, Alderman,” said the witcher, as he felt the man squirming under his boot. “Benny, the lanterns.”

As the lanterns were magically relit, the monster came into view, and the alderman’s eyes widened in shock. He desperately tried to scramble away, but Geralt had him pinned down. 

“Now, where is she, Thacker?” he asked, looking down at the man, but the alderman was too focused on trying to get away from the beast that was just inches in front of him.

“Rien, hold him.”

The werelion reached out its powerful paws and held the alderman still.

The witcher then bent down next to Thacker’s face and slapped it hard to get his attention. When he saw the alderman’s eyes turn his way, he glared at him and then slapped him again, bringing tears to the man’s eyes. The second slap was just because he felt like it.

“Where…is…Evie?” he asked again.

oOo

Evie heard several knocks on the metal door twenty feet away, the sounds reverberating through the small dungeon. She looked through the bars of her jail cell and saw her lone guardsmen stand and walk towards the door. He slid a small, thin piece of metal that was eye-level to the right to see who was on the other side. She assumed it was somebody he knew since he then slid the larger rod of metal to the right to unbar the door to allow them entry. As soon as the door was open, she heard a loud, explosive pop – which she clearly recognized was the result of an Aard Sign being cast - and the man flew backwards fifteen feet, landing hard on his back. Hope began to surge within, but it quickly turned to fear as she saw a large monster pounce into the room with a loud roar and then viciously attack the downed guardsman. He was dead just seconds later. She had unconsciously backed up to the wall of her cell, trying to get as far away from this monster as possible. She was so focused on the beast that she didn’t even notice that anyone else had entered the room.

The witcher grabbed Thacker by the collar of his shirt and threw him into the small dungeon, which was the original holding cell of the town hall. He then shut and locked the door behind them. 

“Rien,” stated Geralt.

The werelion, still crouching over the guardsman, rose to its feet, blood dripping from its paws. It walked slowly over to the alderman and stood behind him, purposefully breathing heavy on top of the man’s head and with his large paw grasping his neck. Geralt found keys on a desk near the door, and he quickly moved over to Evie’s cell, looking at her closely the entire time that he was unlocking the door to her prison. Upon noticing him, she moved up close to the door. She reached out and touched his left hand that was tightly gripping one of the iron bars.

Right before the lock finally clicked, Evie said, “I knew you’d save me.”

“Damn right,” he responded and then threw the door open. They came together, holding each other tightly. They stayed that way, in each other’s arms, for several moments. 

Finally, Evie said, “Geralt, baby, you’re squeezing me too tight.”

The witcher relaxed his hold. “Sorry.”

He then took a step back so that he could look into his love’s face. 

“Did they touch you? Did they…rape you?” he asked, peering hard into her eyes. 

Evie looked down for just a second and then back up into his face. “They didn’t rape me, but he…” she answered. She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. 

Suddenly, the Butcher of Blaviken turned from her and strode quickly toward the alderman, who instinctively covered his face with his hands. The witcher punched him in the gut as hard as he could, trying to drive his fist right through his back. Thacker fell to the ground in a coughing fit, so the Wolf kicked him in the ribs, knocking him over onto his back. He grabbed the man by his shirt and stood him upright again before driving his fist into his gut a second time, causing him to fall to the floor again. Before the witcher could do anymore damage, he felt a hand on his arm at the same time as he heard Evie’s soft voice. 

“Geralt, please stop,” she said calmly. “Please, Geralt…don’t stoop to his level.”

The White Wolf had ahold of the alderman’s shirt with both hands, but somehow her words found their way through his rage. He released his grip, and the alderman fell to the floor. The witcher then stood up and turned to face Evie. She looked into his eyes and nodded.

“Kill him if you must – to keep him from harming anyone else, but don’t brutalize him, okay? That’s not you. That’s the darkness.”

After a moment, the witcher nodded and then turned back toward the alderman.

“I’d like nothing more than to beat your face in, pretty boy, but I’ve got other plans for you.” He then reached down and grabbed Thacker by the ears. “So, get up.”

“Uh, Geralt...” interrupted Benny.

“Yeah?”

“What about her?” asked the mage, pointing to a woman cowering in the corner of another one of the dungeon’s cells.

“Damn it.”

oOo

_I can no longer live a lie. I am the monster of Ban Ard. I’ve been trying to fight it, but it has gotten the best of me. I killed the three men in the castle last month and the others that came to investigate days later. And tonight, I lost control and killed all of these men around me. I can’t take the guilt any longer._

_Please watch after Holly._

_Willet Thacker_

“Who’s Holly,” asked Rien. “His wife?”

“No,” answered Benny. “His purebred, race horse. The only thing in this world – besides himself - that he actually seemed to ever care for.”  
  
The alderman – under the influence of Geralt’s Axii Sign – had just finished writing the suicide note. He was now standing, stripped naked, on a chair in the middle of the law enforcement office. Around his neck was a noose that ran over a beam in the ceiling and was tied off below. He was also covered in blood. Before transforming back into his human state, Rien had wiped the blood from his paws over Thacker’s hands, feet, chin and chest. 

“Geralt, do you actually think anyone is going to believe this note?” asked Benny. “That Thacker was the monster?”

“Ultimately…I don’t care. I just want to throw people off our trail until we’re out of the area. Hopefully, we’ll already be in Redania before some bright spark starts to see that the clues don’t really add up.”

With that, the witcher kicked the chair out from under the alderman’s feet. 

The three watched Thacker gasp and fight for air, and then, as the life finally drained from him, Rien asked, “Didn’t want to give him any last words?”

The White Wolf turned to look at the younger man and shook his head. “Actually think he had something worth hearing?”

“Hell no,” answered Benny before Rien could reply. “Just a bunch of lies. Look, the son of a bitch never even had the crotch rot. Can’t believe I fell for it,” said the mage, shaking his head.

The witcher, with brows furrowed, peered at the mage.

“How can you tell? Wouldn’t your potions have healed him?”

“You actually think I helped him…after that thieving bastard stole my home? I just kept selling him potions for hemorrhoids.”


	17. Chapter 17

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 5

_Vizima, Temeria_

Fringilla Vigo rolled over in bed, and when her hand fell upon the cool sheets, she realized that she was alone. She raised herself up and looked about her third-story bedchamber. The moon was almost full, and its beams passed through the windows, bathing the room in soft light. Her eyes quickly scanned around her, noticing the clothes that were haphazardly strewn over the furniture and the floor. Then, her gaze shifted to her right. Attached to the boudoir was a small balcony, the double doors to which were wide open. An enormous silhouette, taking up half the entryway, stood still in the moonlight. The sorceress threw the sheets off of her naked body, slipped out of bed, and tiptoed quietly up to the shadow. She then pressed her bare breasts against the small of Malek’s back and wrapped her arms around his stomach.

“This is the second night in a row that I’ve woken up with you missing from my bed. I don’t like it. Do you normally have trouble sleeping or is it just because you’re in bed with a ‘wicked’ sorceress?” she asked, rubbing her hands back and forth over the muscles of his abdomen. 

“No, Miss Vigo. It’s not you. It’s…typical,” he replied.

“Malek, as I said last night, at this point, I think our relationship has moved past you calling me, ‘Miss Vigo.’” She lightly dragged the fingernails of both hands downward until she had him firmly in her grip. 

“Now,” she purred, “Come back to bed.”

Later, the petite sorceress was lying on top of Malek, resting her sweat-soaked hair and head on his chest.

“Malek?”

“Yes, Fringilla?”

“I’m curious. Why did you have me open a portal to Dol Blathanna yesterday? What did you do there?”

When he didn’t respond, she asked, “State secrets?”

“Something like that,” he responded.

“Fair enough.” After a pause, she asked another question. “Do you…do you think we’ll actually defeat Redania? Or, can you not answer that either?”

“I can, and…I don’t know. It doesn’t look promising at the moment.”

“If we don’t, what will become of the Empire?”

“Oh, the Empire will survive…even if we never cross the Pontar…even if we get pushed back to south of the Yaruga, the Empire will survive.”

“But, not the Emperor?”

Malek shook his head, but then realized she couldn’t see him. “No. I doubt he would survive that.”

“And you, Malek – what would become of you?”

“That, Fringilla, is unknown.”

The green-eyed woman then raised herself up so that she could look down into his face. 

“You shouldn’t have to die with Emhyr, Malek. You know too much. You do too much. You are way too valuable to the Empire.”

Malek smiled. “That’s kind of you to say, and I happen to agree with you. But I’m not the one you’d have to convince...if it comes to that.”

“So, are you saying that, if it was obvious that the demise of Emhyr’s reign was near, you’d…distance yourself?”

Malek’s smile disappeared, and he snatched the woman’s tiny wrists in his hands. 

“Tread carefully, Miss Vigo. These walls have ears, and your words could easily be misconstrued as borderline treasonous.” 

“No, Malek, you listen to me,” she said forcefully. “No one man is greater than the Empire. It was here long before he was born, and it’ll be here long after he’s gone. His days are few – everybody knows it, but yours don’t have to be. So, ask yourself - just where do your loyalties lie…with him or with the Empire?” 

The eyes of the man bore into Fringilla’s. She thought that she saw him give just the slightest nods of his head, but he said nothing. But, then, she felt something unmistakable, and a smile came to her face.

“Really, Malek? Again?”

oOo

“Geralt…could I…could I ride with you, please?”

The witcher sat atop Roach under the afternoon sun and rode slowly next to a small, covered wagon, which was being driven by Lydial and Evie. A second wagon, steered by Benny and Rien and carrying a sleeping Nikolai, was right behind them on the trail heading west toward Ard Carraigh. The wagons and supplies had been confiscated from the abandoned academy, and the spare horses pulling them had been provided by Thacker’s dead men. Barcain was the only other person on horseback, riding on the opposite side of the first wagon as Geralt. The orphans – along with Gretel - either rode in the back of the wagons or would occasionally get out and walk alongside. Geralt had given the strumpet two choices after finding her imprisoned in the town hall dungeon – either stay behind bars and hope someone found her or come with them. When he told her that she’d be free to go once they got to Ard Carraigh, she’d easily made up her mind.

The White Wolf looked down to see Isaac, the lad with the scarred face, peering up at him. In the last two days, every time the small caravan had stopped to eat, the young boy had found a seat near the witcher. The first time, he hadn’t said anything. He’d just sat quietly and listened to whatever conversation Geralt was having with those around him. But, during their second stop, Geralt had asked the boy his name, which the witcher soon discovered had been a mistake. For after that, he found that the lad was way too inquisitive for the witcher’s taste. He’d asked the monster-hunter countless questions since then – almost all of them pertaining to his swords, his fighting skills, the monsters that he’d killed, and the like. 

The witcher, still looking down at the boy, paused for a moment but finally answered, “Sure, kid.” 

Then, he leaned down and pulled Isaac up and into the saddle with ease. Evie looked over to see the young boy sitting in front of Geralt and leaning back against the witcher’s chest, and a grin crossed her face. 

“Geralt, can I ask you a question?” asked Isaac.

Evie saw Geralt give the faintest of sighs, which made her grin even wider.

“Sure, kid. What do you want to know now?”

He then proceeded to pepper Geralt with an onslaught of questions for fifteen minutes straight. During this entire time, the witcher kept looking over at Evie, who was staring at him with a warm smile on her face. 

After Isaac’s final question – about witcher meditation – Geralt said, “You know, kid, I think you really need to hang out with Evie.”

“Why is that, Geralt?”

“You two are a lot alike. You both like to ask a lot of questions. I think you’re a future historian in the making.”

The boy was silent for a moment. Then, he said. “Nah. I’d rather be with you. I don’t want to be with someone who asks a lot of questions.”

The witcher nodded his head. “Yeah, I know what you mean, kid. They can be annoying sometimes.”

He made eye-contact with Evie, who narrowed her eyes at him, but the smirk on her face made it clear that she knew he was joking.

Isaac didn’t understand the sarcasm and continued talking. 

“I need to be with someone who has answers, not questions.”

“Well, I’m starting to run out of answers. I think you’ve asked me everything I know.”

Isaac didn’t say anything else for several minutes. Finally, he asked, “Is Lydial a witcher, too?”

Geralt had a perplexed look on his face. “No, she’s not. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve seen her down on her knees, doing witcher-meditation sometimes. If she’s not a witcher, what is she doing?”

“She’s praying.”

“Oh,” Isaac replied simply. “Praying…that’s talking to God, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“What do you exactly talk to him about?”

“Don’t know, kid. I don’t pray. How about you ask her?” 

He then led Roach over, closer to the wagon, next to where Lydial and Evie were seated on the front bench. 

“Lydial, Isaac’s got a question for you. In fact, it’d probably be best if he sat next to you for this.” 

He then picked up the small boy and placed him on the bench next to Evie, who just shook her head at the witcher. He just smirked back at her. She stood up to let Isaac scooch over to sit in between the two women. 

“What is it you wanted to know?” Lydial asked.

“What’s the difference between what you do and what Geralt does…between meditation and prayer?”

“Well, I can’t rightly speak on witcher-meditation – you’ll have to discuss that with Geralt - but I can talk to you about prayer. Unlike regular meditation, when I pray, I’m not just clearing my mind or focusing my thoughts inward. I’m actually focusing all of my thoughts outward - toward my God. I’m mentally speaking with him. His name is Essea.”

“Why do you talk to him?”

“Well, because he’s not just my God, and my protector and provider. He’s also my best friend. Do you have a best friend?”

Isaac shook his head, a sad look coming to his face. “I used to.”

“I’m sorry. What was your best friend’s name?”

“Billy.”

“Did you like spending time with Billy, playing together, talking about different things?”

“Yeah, he was great.”

Lydial nodded her head. “Friends are important. Spending time with them is important. And that’s one reason I pray. That’s me spending time with my best friend, Essea. Do you understand?”

“I guess. Doesn’t look like a lot of fun, though,” he replied. “Why do you kneel?”

“Well, I was taught by my parents that, in those times when I have formal prayer, I am supposed to kneel before Essea as a sign of reverence and respect. To bow down before him in humility, to show that he is my King and Lord. But, to be honest, most of the time when I pray, I don’t kneel because it just wouldn’t be practical since I talk to him all throughout the day. Like I said, he’s my best friend.”

“When you talk to him, do you ask him for stuff?”

“Well, yes and no. God’s not just some genie who you only go to when you want something from him. Prayer is so much more than that, but yes, I do ask him for things – to watch over my loved ones, to protect us from evil, to encourage us through hard times. But many times, I’ll pray and I won’t ask him for anything. I’ll just tell him what’s on my heart and mind. My worries and fears. Tell him that I’m grateful to him for the things that he’s sent that are bringing me joy.”

“If he’s God, doesn’t he already know all of that?”

Lydial laughed. “Well, yes, he does, but…I believe that I am his child, and like any good father, he wants me to come to him and speak with him – even if he already knows everything that’s going on in my life.”

“Does he ever say anything back to you?”

She shook her head. “No, not really. He reveals himself to me, to everyone, through his creation – through the world, the stars, the moon. And over the years, I believe that he has spoken directly to specific individuals. He’s given direct revelation to certain prophets and priests, who, in turn, wrote down what he revealed about himself and his character. But he’s never revealed anything specifically to me. And that’s why the holy scriptures -” and at that, she pulled the Essean tome from a bag that was next to her. “That’s why this book is so precious and important. This is the primary way that he has chosen to tell us about himself. Reading this is how we get to know God, to know who he truly is. And it’s through knowing him that I can actually love him…because, Isaac, you can’t truly love someone that you don’t know. Whatever feeling that is…it’s not true love. So, that’s why I read this every day, so that I can more fully understand who he is, what is promises are, and how I can live a life that honors him.”

She looked down into Isaac’s face, and he just nodded at her. 

“I’m sorry. I think I got a little off topic. Do you think you understand, or do you have more questions?”

He shook his head. “No. I think I get it. You pray to talk to him, and you read that book to hear him talk to you. Right?”

Lydial smiled and nodded. “Yes. That’s pretty close.”

At that point, Isaac heard laughter from some of the kids playing in the road behind him. He stood up on the bench and looked their way. A moment later, he turned to Lydial.

“Thanks, Lydial, for explaining prayer.” He then looked at Geralt. “You, too, Geralt.”

He then jumped down from the wagon and ran back to the others. 

Evie turned to Geralt and smiled. “Sweet kid. And, you’re sweet, too, being so patient with him. I know that it must be driving you crazy, answering all of his questions.”

The witcher looked back at the kids running around the other wagon, and then he looked at Evie and slightly shrugged. 

“I remember what it’s like…growing up without parents. So…” He didn’t finish his thought. “Anyway, he’s not the first kid I’ve ever dealt with. Ciri was about his age when I took her in.” 

“What was she like?”

He shook his head. “Nothing like him. She didn’t ask questions. She made demands. She was…a spoiled, stubborn, little princess…literally. Luckily, she grew out of it, for the most part, but it took quite a while.” 

“I’m surprised you had the patience to deal with her.”

The White Wolf nodded his head. “Yeah, me, too. She was difficult at times. But…she was just a little kid – lost, alone…scared. She needed someone to protect her, to love her.”

Geralt, without even realizing it, had reached down with his left hand and was gripping Ciri’s wolf-head medallion that was tied to the belt loop of his pants. After a moment, he spoke again but he was staring straight ahead when he did.

“She was an orphan, too - or, at least, she thought she was,” he said very quietly, as if he was only speaking to himself.

He was lost in his thoughts for a while, and then he turned and looked back again at the kids. Of the nine, Isaac was the only one that didn’t have at least one sibling in the group. In the last two days, the witcher had seen how they all interacted whether it was while playing, eating meals, or getting ready to sleep, and Isaac always seemed to be slightly off by himself. It wasn’t obvious. He wasn’t isolated, but he always just seemed to be on the fringes. Geralt wasn’t sure if that was Isaac’s choice or not, but he was clearly not as much a tight-knit member of the group as the rest. He always seemed a bit unsure of himself - unsure of his role, unsure of his place. Perhaps, that was why the boy had so obviously attached himself to the witcher. Geralt could certainly relate. He’d felt like an outcast his entire life. As a witcher – a mutated human – he had never fit in with any group. Humans scorned him because of his mutations, non-humans distrusted him because he was human, and sapient “monsters” feared him because of his profession. And if truth be known, he’d always even felt a little like an outsider with most witchers, too. He’d never felt that he’d truly belonged anywhere – except on the Path, alone. But that had started to change in the last few weeks with the realization that God had, at some point, reached down and touched him in a mysterious way. And he knew it wasn’t random chance at all that that realization had coincided with Evie and, soon after, Lydial entering his life. He had no doubt that it was all connected somehow.

Pondering on all of this – God, orphans, and outcasts - made him think of the exclusivity of the religion of the Eternal Fire, and then a question popped into his head. A question that he wanted answered. Coming out of his thoughts, he saw that Roach had dropped back just a bit during his introspection. He gave her a light squeeze with his feet and she sped up to draw even again with Evie and Lydial. Evie looked at Geralt with concern in her eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah,” he responded, and then a small smirk came to his face. “Though, now…I guess it’s my turn to ask Lydial some questions.”

“No problem,” the elf said, with a smile of her own. “What’s on your mind?”

“One of the last things Iorveth said to me was that Essea was the God of the Aen Seidhe. And I’ve heard you say – and that book of yours say - that the Aen Seidhe are his chosen nation. What exactly does that mean – his chosen nation?”

“Well, we believe that he chose us out of all of the races to have a special and unique relationship with him. Unfortunately, over the centuries, that fact has caused a lot of Aen Seidhe to become arrogant. They believe that our special status is somehow due to some grand attributes that we possess that other races don’t.”

“I take it you don’t believe that.”

“Not at all. Our earliest historical scriptures show the Aen Seidhe not as a powerful, conquering nation but as humble, lowly, starving slaves. And it was at that point that Essea chose to reveal himself to our leader, Creideamh. It was while we were a weak, beaten-down, oppressed nation that he chose us. He delivered us out of slavery. He protected us as we crossed the dangerous ocean. He led us to the Continent and helped us prosper for centuries. So, I honestly don’t know where all of the Aen Seidhe pride comes from, but those that have it have clearly forgotten our history. The truth is that there should be no such thing as an arrogant believer of Essea.”

Geralt was nodding his head. “Okay. So, he chose you while you were a nation of slaves. But, chose you for what – for what ultimate purpose?”

“I honestly don’t know for sure. As I told Isaac earlier, I’m not one of his prophets. He’s never spoken directly to me, but…I believe – based on things I’ve read – that his plan is to reveal himself, to reveal his majesty to the entire world through us.”

“What? Why would he even need to do that? Couldn’t he just reveal himself to whomever he wants?”

“Of course. Our God is in heaven, and he can do whatever he pleases. I don’t know why he’s chosen this as his plan. Nor do I even understand it really. I just know that it is.”

“So, let me get this straight. Essea’s plan is to reveal himself to you, the Aen Seidhe, and then the Aen Seidhe are supposed to tell the rest of the world about him?”

“More or less, yes.”

At that point, Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I’d say it’s ‘less.’ If that’s the plan, then you, elves, have seriously failed in your part. In my century of living, I’ve traveled all over this continent, met hundreds and hundreds of Aen Seidhe, and I just heard of Essea two weeks ago. What the hell have you Esseans been doing for the last twelve centuries? Hell, in just twelve months, the fanatics of the Eternal Fire have spread the name of their god all across Kaedwen.” 

“Geralt!” whispered Evie, looking embarrassed.

“It’s okay, Evie. He’s right.” She then looked back at Geralt. “You’re right, Geralt. I won’t defend us. And I’m as guilty as anyone. We have no excuse. The simple explanation is that we saw how our fellow Aen Seidhe, those that decided to move into the human towns and cities, would eventually fall away from the faith – if they hadn’t already. I think that the rest of us, to combat that, reacted in the opposite extreme. To keep from being absorbed into the human culture, we decided to isolate ourselves instead. But I don’t believe that either of those courses of action – absorption or isolation – is what Essea calls for us to do. Absorption gives us a lot of people to talk to but with nothing significant to say to them, and with isolation, we still have life-changing news of Essea, but no one to share it with. So, you’re right, we’ve down a lousy job of sharing the great news of our God with the world around us.” 

The witcher didn’t say anything for the longest time. He just stared off into the distance, breathing very slowly and deeply. Evie and Lydial didn’t speak either. In the silence, they could hear the sounds of the wagon wheels turning and the horses’ tails swishing flies off their backs. 

Finally, Geralt looked again at Lydial. To Evie’s eyes, he looked a bit calmer.

“So…even though the Aen Seidhe are his chosen people, you’re saying that he’s apparently the God for all. That he’ll accept everyone, even…a mutant like me.”

Lydial nodded. “Yes, Geralt, he will.”

“And just why exactly do you believe that? On what basis? Just because you want to?”

She shook her head. “No. Because he says so in his scriptures.”

Geralt nodded. “Can you give me an example?”

“I can. Give me just a moment.” 

And then Lydial gave the reins to Evie so that she could grab the tome. Eventually, she found the page she was looking for. 

“This is one of our poems of praise,” she said.

“Blessed, Essea, may you be gracious to us and bless us and make your face shine upon us – so that your ways may be known throughout the earth, your salvation among all of the nations.  
You, Essea, are a father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, and savior to the oppressed.  
You set the lonely in families and lead out the prisoners with singing.  
May all the races praise you, O Holy God; May all the nations be glad and sing for you, for you rule all the earth with righteousness and equity.  
None that come to you will you ever turn away.”

Geralt was silent for a bit before eventually asking. “And who wrote that?”

“The ‘father’ of the Aen Seidhe nation. Our first prophet and priest, Creideamh.”

“Who Essea spoke to?”

“Among others. Yes.”

“And why should anyone believe that this Creideamh wasn’t just some lunatic, making up nonsense? I mean, the world is full of people claiming that God spoke to them, right?”

“You’re right. But most of what Creideamh recorded wasn’t just what Essea revealed exclusively to him. He documented all of the promises that Essea made to the Aen Seidhe nation – breaking their chains of slavery, supplying them ships to cross the Great Sea, giving them a land of their own. He wrote about all of God’s miracles – raining down fiery meteorites from the skies, providing sustenance during the years on the ocean after the original stores of food ran out, causing a giant tidal wave to safely place the ships on the Continent’s shores instead of allowing them crash into the rocky cliffs…and much more. These were miracles witnessed by thousands of Aen Seidhe. So, if he’d simply been writing mythical stories, he’d have been called out on it. But there’s no evidence that he ever was.”

The witcher nodded his head. “Okay. That makes sense. Do you mind if I read it?”

“Of course not,” Lydial answered, before passing the tome to Evie, who passed it to Geralt.

After only a moment, they both heard a deep sigh coming from the witcher. 

“I tried reading this book that first night in your cabin. Couldn’t understand it then. Can’t understand it any better now in the light of day. Can only make out every other word or so.” He then handed the book back to Evie. 

“Geralt, are you okay?” asked Evie.

He looked her in the eyes and then shook his head. “No. I’m not.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I honestly don’t know. I just feel…I don’t know…unsettled.”

“Can I help you? Do you want to talk?”

He shook his head again. “No. I think I just need to be alone with my thoughts for a while. Okay?”

“Okay. Just know that I’m here for you.”

Geralt nodded and then urged his mare into a canter. Evie watched the witcher ride off down the trail, small clouds of dust stirred up by Roach’s hooves.

Lydial reached over and patted her granddaughter’s knee. “He’ll be okay. I’m going to pray for him. Would you like to join me?”

Evie nodded her head and grasped Lydial’s hand.

oOo

_Northern Redania_

Philippa Eilhart sat in her castle at Montecalvo. Despite King Radovid’s best efforts to have the sorceress’ home razed to the ground, her magical protections, for the most part, had held off the attacks. At least they had held them off long enough for the soldiers and engineers to realize that they’d need a much greater arsenal to complete the job. And since almost all of the Redanian military forces and weapons were needed at the war front, then demolishing the fortress just hadn’t been possible at the time. Thus, Philippa sat in a partially damaged and dark castle, which, frankly, fit her mood after her most recent run-in with Malek at the Dol Blathanna palace. 

She sat behind a desk in her expansive, private study and library, but she wasn’t alone. Sitting on a small sofa across from her was Oran Eilhart - her older brother, fellow magic user, and the assassin known as the Ghost. His magical ability was a fraction of his sister’s, but given that Philippa was one of the most powerful magic users on the planet, that wasn’t anything for the typical mage to be embarrassed about. Virtually every mage’s power and ability paled in comparison to hers. However, because the clearly superior sorceress happened to be his little sister – two years his junior - then it did very little good for their already complicated relationship. 

Philippa and Oran had actually been close as kids, growing up together in a run-down cabin in the woods in northern Redania. It was that cabin that she had, decades later, demolished and on whose former site now stood her current castle. Being pummeled by their drunken, widower father seemed to forge of bond of understanding and camaraderie between the two Eilhart children, and Oran had always done his best to step in between his father and his little sister when their father was in a crazed-state. But few pre-pubescent boys can stand up to a fully-grown man, and once Oran was beaten and tossed aside, there was nothing to stop Philippa from being next. Over time, the beatings became fewer and fewer, but not because Mr. Eilhart had learned to control his demons. Firstly, the two had quickly learned to discern their father’s moods, to anticipate a beating coming on, and to hide in the woods until the next morning. But, secondly, and more disturbing, was the fact that Papa Eilhart had found other outlets for his pent-up rage – specifically, visits to young Philippa’s bed. Those nocturnal visits continued for a long time, until one night, Oran walked in on the two. The next time his father passed out in a drunken stupor, twelve-year-old Oran drove a pair of pruning shears through his father’s throat. Then, he and Philippa tossed the body into the nearby river.

The next night, ten-year old Philippa slipped into Oran’s bed, and she displayed her gratitude to her older sibling by showing him all the things that she’d learned from dearest dad. Oran was disgusted and ashamed. Not for what she had attempted to do, but because he’d let her. And for the next several months, he never stopped her. While Oran had always loved his little sister, he had discovered that he’d fallen in love with her, too.

Eventually, a great aunt came and took them to live with her, and soon after both Eilhart children were sent off to their respective magical academies, though Oran hadn’t completed his education at Ban Ard. A few years later, they met up again, and Oran had hoped they could pick up where they’d left off. But his hopes were quickly dashed. The young woman in front of him, he had barely recognized, but not simply due to a change in physical appearance – though she had clearly transformed into a stunningly beautiful woman. What he hadn’t recognized was the aloof, haughty sorceress who seemed to barely want to give him the time of day. She had acted as if he was a bothersome stranger instead of the brother who had loved her and tried his best to protect her. When he’d proposed that they spend the night together, she’d rebuffed him with an arrogant laugh. Their relationship had been rocky and mostly non-existent ever since.

“Okay, Sister. You got me here. So, what do you want? And make it quick. I’ve got a business to get back to.”

“Oh, yes. Leading your merry band of cut-throats. Loan-sharking, extorting small-business owners, running street whores. Quite the entrepreneur that you’ve become.”

“Go plough yourself. You think you’re so much better than me? Well, at least I’m not reviled by my entire country. Everyone knows you killed King Vizimir. Thanks for handing the kingdom over to his deranged kid, you scheming bitch.”

“Charming, as always, Oran.”

“Is this why you brought me here – just to mock me? You know what…you deserve what you got. Most Redanians just wish that you’d had more than your eyes gouged out.” Oran stood angrily, glaring at his sister. “I should have known better than to come here,” he snarled, turning towards the open doorway that led to the hall. However, before he could get there, the doors slammed shut. He didn’t even bother trying to open them. He knew that he couldn’t overpower Philippa’s magic so he simply turned around and saw that she was now standing behind her desk. 

“I’m afraid that, as usual, we have gotten off to a poor start. Let me apologize.”

Oran furrowed his brow on hearing that.

“You’ve never apologized to me – for anything. What exactly do you want, Philippa?” he asked with suspicion dripping from every word.

The sorceress walked around her desk, sat on the sofa, and patted the cushion next to her.

“For now, I’d just like for my big brother to come sit next to me. Let me show you how contrite I am,” she said with small smile.

Oran stood still, staring at his sister – the one that he loathed and the one that he still loved. He, eventually, walked towards the sofa, hating himself that she still had ahold of him.

oOo

Tressa, sitting between Benny and Rien on the front seat of the second wagon, watched the witcher ride off by himself. Despite traveling in his party for the last forty-eight hours, she wasn’t really any more comfortable around him now than when they’d first met. Of course, she could admit that first impressions were hard to overcome and that their first meeting had been a very rocky encounter. He had come to the castle to kill the monster…the man…that she loved. And even though he had spared Rien and even though he now seemed to be going out of his way to help all of them, she still didn’t trust him, for she couldn’t get that initial confrontation down in the dungeons out of her mind. 

“Benny, how long have you known the witcher?” she asked.

“Oh…at least fifty years”

“Are you two friends?”

The mage scratched his chin and looked up. “Well…he’s not a typical friend, but yes, I’d consider us friends – at the least, friendly acquaintances.”

“What do you mean by ‘typical?’”

“The last time I saw him was almost a decade ago. So, we’re not the type of friends that constantly stay in touch. That’s what I mean. But I trust him with my life.”

“What? How?” she asked incredulously.

“Despite the myths about witchers, Geralt has a streak of goodness in him.”

“But he was going to let you – his friend - die in the dungeons. And he was going to kill Rien even though he’d only killed those men to protect us. And, not only that, I’m pretty sure he was even willing to kill us – me and Lukas - to get to Rien. How can you say he’s good?”

“I understand your point of view, but you’re only seeing one piece of the puzzle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Regardless of what people think, he tries to do the ‘right’ thing – at least, his definition of ‘right.’ And despite sometimes doing things – like killing – that other people find questionable, he has a certain honor about him. Remember – he tried to give Rien a chance to talk things out, right?”

Tressa reluctantly nodded her head. 

“And what you didn’t see was him trying – twice – of talking me out of going into the Academy with him in the first place. He knew it was going to be potentially dangerous, and he didn’t want anything happening to me. But I told him I was going anyway. So, I knew what I was getting into.”

The teenage girl let her eyes drift out towards the horizon while she pondered what he had just said. Finally, she had another question. “When Rien had you in his grasp, you told the witcher, ‘Do what you have to do.’ Did you really mean that?”

Benny nodded and laughed. “I did. I obviously didn’t want to die, but I also knew the situation, and I didn’t want Geralt to feel guilty if things turned sour. He was down there, ultimately, because he was trying to save people he cared about, and like I said, he’d tried talking me out of going with him. So, it was my own fault that Rien got the jump on me.”

Rien looked at Benny and nodded his head.

“Let that be a lesson to you, Tressa. Before you go into a dangerous situation, you’d better count the costs and calculate the risks. And, then, if you decide to go ahead a jump in anyway, then face the consequences with dignity. Don’t whine and complain that you didn’t know what you were getting into.”

At that point, Benny glanced at Rien, but the teenager girl’s eyes had drifted out towards the prairie around them and had missed his look.

“So, you’re saying that he really would have let you die and he really would have killed us and Rien to save Evie?”

“That, I don’t know. Perhaps, but now we’re dealing in hypotheticals.”

“Well, that doesn’t make me trust him much – even if you do. How can I trust somebody who’d kill an innocent person just to get what he wants?”

“That’s your right – not to trust him or like him, but I think you’re focusing too much on what he might have done and not on what he actually did do. He tried talking me out of going with him because he was concerned with my safety; he did give Rien a chance to parley; he could have easily cut you and Lukas down with his blade, but he simply used a Sign instead; and he did spare Rien’s life, even though the entire purpose of going in there was to take his head. If you want to dislike him because he can be gruff and distant, so be it. But you can’t dislike him for being a mindless killer who murders innocent teenagers– because that, he clearly is not.”

Tressa sighed. “Yeah, I suppose so. So…he’s not dangerous?”

Benny laughed again. “Oh, no. He’s very dangerous. But no more than the man you’re sitting next to right now…but you still trust him, right?”  
  
She looked at Rien and then looked back at Benny with a small smile. “I guess I see your point.”

oOo

Geralt stood atop a small hill overlooking the road to Ard Carraigh. Roach was by his side, munching on the thick, green grass that covered the rolling hill-country of central Kaedwen. There weren’t many trees around in that particular area so he could easily see the two-wagon caravan, about half a mile away, moving slowly westward. The discussion with Lydial had stirred up conflicting feelings, and his thoughts and emotions had become all jumbled in his head. He’d simply needed some time alone to sort them out. He realized, then, that he hadn’t been alone in close to two weeks, and historically, being around too many people for too long – like a pebble in a shoe - would eventually irritate him to no end.

As he stared at the front wagon carrying Evie, he kept reliving certain bits of the conversation in his mind. Clearly, at one point, he’d gotten angry – angry that the Aen Seidhe had this knowledge of God that they’d kept hidden and private. He thought of just how selfish they were to do that. It’d be the equivalent of him stumbling upon a magical fountain that could heal all assortments of diseases and infirmities, and instead of going out and telling others of this amazing news, he’d simply kept it to himself. He thought back to the time in his twenties when he’d spent so much energy investigating all the different gods of all the different cultures. He wondered how different the last eighty years of his life would have been if some Aen Seidhe elf had simply told him of Essea back then. Of course, if God was truly all powerful, like Geralt hoped he was, then he had to admit that God, ultimately then, was in control of this, too. He must have had some reason for not revealing himself to Geralt until now. The witcher just didn’t understand it, and he wanted to. He was tired of being confused, which is how he’d felt for the last few weeks. He felt as if his entire perspective on life had been turned upside down – the fact that he still hadn’t slept with Evie was just one of many, obvious examples. In the past, he would have taken her to bed at the first opportunity. 

His anger at the Aen Seidhe had eventually dissipated, and it had been replaced by a sense of optimism as their discussion had continued. And now, a half hour later, it was that hope that he was focused on. There was one line that Lydial had read to him that kept running through his mind, and it was that one line that led the witcher to do something that he’d never done in his one hundred years. He prayed. He didn’t get on his knees. He didn’t even bow his head. He simply closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and after exhaling slowly, he spoke aloud.

“God… ‘None who come to you will you ever turn away,’…right? So…here I am. I’m convinced that you exist, but…I need clarity because I don’t know who you are. I’m starting to believe that you’re Essea, but…I’m just not sure. I need…I need for you to reveal yourself to me…somehow…so that I can know.” 

At that point, he paused for a long time. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes and scanned the sky. Upon seeing nothing but clear skies dotted with some wispy clouds, a small smile came to his face. 

“So, no lightning bolt or clap of thunder?” He nodded his head. “Alright.” 

After another deep breath, he closed his eyes again and finished. “I don’t know how to end one of these things so…I guess…thanks for listening.” 

The witcher opened his eyes, and they automatically drifted upward. He saw thin clouds gliding slowly across the bright blue skies, and then his gaze lowered to watch the high grass of the rolling plain swaying in the gentle wind. For the longest time, he remained motionless, just standing peacefully in the warm afternoon sun and calmly listening to the soft rustling sound of the breeze in his ears and sensing its refreshing touch on his face. Eventually, he nodded slightly to himself, mounted Roach, and rode slowly down the subtle slope of the hill towards the caravan – to his love and to the rest of the motley crew of outcasts and orphans.   



	18. Chapter 18

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 6

_Redania_

Vernon Roche was a long way from home and - he thought to himself - a long time from home, as well. Though, truth be told, the commander of the Blue Stripes - the disbanded special forces unit of the Temerian military turned freedom fighters - wasn’t even sure where his home was anymore. Both the government and military of Temeria no longer existed, and his homeland was caught between two titanic powers - Nilfgaard and Redania. He doubted there would be much left of the kingdom except for scraps after those two empires were done raping, pillaging, and – sometime in the future – using it as a bargaining piece in diplomatic negotiations. Still, despite the hopeless outlook, he fought on. The career soldier simply didn’t know what else to do with his life. 

Roche and his roughly two-dozen soldiers were all strategically placed either in or around the capital city of Tretogor. And they’d been there for over a year. Ever since the failed assassination attempt against Radovid the previous summer in Novigrad, the Redanian king had holed up in his palace and had not been seen out of it since. Roche didn’t think it possible, but the man had become even more paranoid since then – rightly so, Roche could admit. That said, in the last year, the Temerian had managed to get two of Radovid’s palace workers on his payroll as spies, but they were strictly of the type to gather intelligence. If Radovid was to eventually fall to an assassin’s plot, then Roche would either have to find a way into the royal palace himself or somehow catch the monarch when he eventually left the safety his home.

The commander heard rustling coming from behind him and turned to see his second in command, Ves, crouched down and walking towards him in his camouflaged observation post. He knew it must be important for Ves to be there in person. 

“What is it?” asked Roche

“A platoon of men – about twenty – just left the back gate of the palace. They headed west on that back road directly towards Kaedwen.”

“Were they flying the king’s banner?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean anything. If Radovid is with them, he’s too smart to advertise his presence.”

Roche didn’t say anything for a moment, assessing the situation.

“If he is with them, then what are they doing heading to Kaedwen? The war front is south,” said Ves, interrupting his thoughts by stating the obvious. 

Roche shook his head.  
“It could be nothing, but…take three men and follow them…at a distance. Just observe them. Do not engage. Understand, Ves?” he commanded to his reckless lieutenant. 

She smiled. “Right-o.”

oOo

_Central Kaedwen_

“Renewal comes from the destroyer. Order from the wild. Of the same father, but not belonging. A lover of death, rebirth will come through him. Twisted yet straight, esteemed yet reviled, virgin yet marred. By his right hand, the world will be cleansed through the rod of Apophis.”

Evie had just repeated the prophecy in the tome on her brother’s request.

“Geralt, I’ve never asked you. What do you think about it?” asked Barcain in a whisper. 

“It’s nonsense,” he replied, leaning forward and throwing a piece of deadwood on the small campfire, causing a few glowing embers to float upward into the night sky. 

Several hours before, the group had made camp for the evening. Even though they were only a mile south of Ard Carraigh, the witcher had decided against looking for lodging in town. He was leery of venturing into the city unless there was an absolute need. What their excursion into Ban Ard had almost caused was still very fresh in his mind. 

The orphans – most of them already asleep – were either in, under, or around one of the wagons on the other side of the campfire. In the back of the second wagon, Benny, Rien, and Gretel were sitting with Nikolai, who was in magical stasis from some of Benny’s potent elixirs. Even though the mage’s potions had worked perfectly the first two nights, everybody felt safer if either he or Rien stayed with him throughout the evening. Thus, that left the witcher, Evie, Lydial, and Barcain sitting by themselves, and eventually the former soldier brought up the prophecy regarding the rod of Apophis.

“Why do you think that? You don’t believe in prophecies?” 

Geralt shook his head. “Prophecies are only valuable in hindsight, for the historians.” This produced a smirk and a playful nudge of the elbow from Evie. “I’ve got personal experience with them so I know that they don’t all come true. And even with the ones that do, it’s usually in some ridiculously alternate way that no one ever expected. So, this prophecy serves no practical purpose for me. It’s not going to affect my decisions one bit. Think about it. This person that’s going to wield the rod and restore order – whatever that means exactly – is apparently…a virgin? Well, that right there excludes us and just about everyone on the Continent over the age of twelve. That, or ‘virgin’ actually has a different meaning than what it normally means. Either way, how does that affect us or our ability to find this thing? I say, not at all.”

Barcain nodded his head. “Yeah, why are prophecies always so vague, with multiple meanings?”

“Hell if I know. Ask the Professor,” he said, tilting his head at Evie, who was snuggled next to him.

She smiled. “Well, I don’t know either. It’s not like I’ve ever made one. I just study them…and I find them fascinating.”

“Maybe they are…but that still doesn’t make them practical,” retorted Geralt.   
  
“But they could be,” piped up Lydial.

“How so?” asked Geralt.

“What if Essea decided to speak through a prophet and gave him a prophetic word or vision about some future event. Let’s say that he told him the specific day that you’d die and that, after you died, he was going to take you to live with him in heaven. I’d argue that that kind of knowledge would be very practical. It would or should completely change the way you’d live out the rest of your life.”

“That’d depend,” argued Geralt.

“On what?”

“Couple of things. Is the prophecy clear? Because they’re only practical if they’re clear. If you can’t understand them, they’re pointless. Also, they’re only practical if you know that they’ll come true, and that all depends on the origin of the prophecy. Can I trust the person who gave the prophecy? Is it just the ramblings from some mad man, or is it actually from God? Because if it’s from an all-powerful, all-good God – from a God whose plans can’t be thwarted and from a God who can’t lie – then that prophecy is no longer a prophecy.”

“What is it then?”

“A promise. An unbreakable guarantee. And that’s something I can trust in. That’s practical.”

The conversation stopped when everyone saw Benny walking with his cane towards the campfire. 

“How is he?” asked Lydial.

“Stable,” answered the mage, sitting down next to the others. 

“I’ve noticed Gretel has been spending a lot of time with him,” remarked Evie.

“Yeah, she’s been a great help. During the day, she coaxes water down him, moves his arms and legs about to keep his joints and muscles loose, wipes the sweat and dust from his face. She’s really looking after him.”

“Has anyone noticed that she seems a lot more comfortable around Nikolai and the kids than around us?” Evie asked.

Lydial nodded. “Well, she’s not much older than they are. Probably has more in common with them.”

“It’s more than that,” said Benny. “I think she prefers their company because…it’s like a clean-slate with them…since they aren’t aware of her past profession. I get the feeling she’s embarrassed by it. Thinks we look down on her for it. And…I don’t think she wants to go back to it. She was dropping obvious hints today about her desire not to leave us in Ard Carraigh. I think, maybe, she’s found a purpose in our weird, little group – looking after Nikolai and the younger ones.”

Evie looked up at Geralt. “Could she go with them?”

When he didn’t immediately respond, she whispered, “Please, Geralt. This could be a new start for her.”

He looked into Evie’s pleading eyes for several moments, and then he eventually sighed. 

“Damn it,” he said, shaking his head. “I can just imagine what Vesemir would say.” He sighed again. “Alright, why not? What’s one more?” 

“Great! I’ll go tell her now,” said Benny, getting to his feet.

Geralt felt Evie hug him tighter, and then, suddenly, she leaned up close to his ear.

“Come with me,” she said as she grabbed his hand and started getting to her feet. 

She took off at a fast walk, and once they were out of the campsite, she started running. Geralt stayed beside her, holding her hand the entire time. She laughed as they ran through a small orchard, the light of the full moon illuminating the way. Finally, she stopped in the middle of a group of fruit trees. In the moonlight, their white flowers shone like silver. She turned and peered into his eyes, a large smile on her face. She was breathing heavy and her heart was beating rapidly but not just from the run. As she continued looking into her witcher’s face, her smile suddenly disappeared, replaced by a serious look. She lifted her right hand and, with her fingertips, traced his scar down his cheek. She then reached down and grasped both of his hands in hers.

“I love you, Geralt of Rivia,” she said softly.

A look of confusion immediately came to the witcher’s face. 

“You what?” he asked, shaking his head. “But…why?” 

“Because of your heart and your kindness…because you deserve it…because you love me.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. He just stared into her beautiful, dark eyes. He finally nodded. 

“I do. I do love you,” he said, surprise clearly in his voice. And then a smile came to his face. “I love you, Evie,” he declared again, that time with absolute conviction.

oOo

_Vizima, Temeria_

Malek and Fringilla stood together, fully dressed, in her bedchamber. She was wearing her normal attire – an elegant dress that showed off her remarkable figure and the unpretentious but clearly expensive jewelry adorning her ears, fingers, and neck. He, on the other hand, wore the clothes of a commoner and not his typical armor, which made sense given that he was planning to sneak across the Pontar River and into enemy territory.

“Do you have to leave right now?” she asked.

“I’ve got my orders from Emhyr, and Timataal and Delkith are finally fully healed from Philippa’s attack…so it’s time to go.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Kaedwen.”

“How do you know that they’re there? Your spy network?”

Malek shook his head. 

“No…that’s actually been quiet for several days. It’s just an educated guess. Kaedwen is the most logical place that they’d be.” 

The sorceress craned her neck to look up into his face while reaching out to grasp his hand. 

“Let me come with you. You could use a sorceress.”

Malek stood still and quiet for a long time, during which Fringilla said nothing else. Eventually, the soldier nodded.

“You are…useful.”

The sorceress smiled. “Indeed I am. I knew that you’d see reason. Tell me the location, and I’ll open a portal.”

Malek shook his head. “No. My men and I need our horses and the gear that’s on them. And I’ve never seen anyone able to coax a horse even near, much less through, a portal. Looks like you’ll have to ride with us if you want to tag along,” he finished with a small smirk.

“Ugh. How about this?” propositioned the witch. “You just tell me where to meet you, and I’ll teleport there.”

“Don’t like riding horses?”

Fringilla simply shrugged. “I’ve simply never had to. Why bother when there’s magic?”

“Makes sense,” he said before telling her where he and his men were headed.

“Meet you there in two days?” she asked.

He nodded. “We should arrive within three days at the latest – if things go smoothly.”

The sorceress then batted her eyelashes and said seductively, “I’ll miss you. My bed will be so lonely without you.”

After a pause, Malek smiled, reached down, cupped her butt with both hands, and pulled her upward. She let out a small gasp and then instinctively wrapped both her arms and legs around him.

“Yeah, I’ll miss you, too, Fringilla,” he responded before kissing her deeply.

The sorceress had a smile on her face as Malek said his goodbyes, but it disappeared the moment he turned and left the room. 

She smoothed down her ruffled clothes, checked her make-up and hair in a nearby mirror on the wall, and then promptly opened a portal.

Ten minutes later, the magically-exhausted sorceress walked out of her fourth portal and into a large, garden-like courtyard of a lavish estate situated in the capital city of Nilfgaard. She knew that it’d be at least an hour before she could perform another spell. Teleporting halfway across the Continent always drained her magically. Her eyes immediately found those of a blond-haired man wearing the height of fashion. She began walking towards him, and he presented his hand as she approached. She placed her hand in his, at which point he bowed and kissed hers lightly just below the knuckles. 

“Ravishing, as ever, Fringilla,” said Donato Vigo, staring into the sorceress’ eyes as he raised himself back to full height.

Fringilla’s face remained stoic. “Thank you…cousin,” she replied, as she took a seat. Next to the bench was a small table holding a tray of food and drinks. She thankfully reached for some cheese and wine. 

Donato smiled. “I’m not sure why you always bring that up. Our kinship is quite distant. No one would frown upon us having a relationship.”

“Except your wife, perhaps?”

His smile grew wider. “Yes, perhaps her.” Then, his smile faded.

“So, how goes it with Malek?”

“It’s progressing.”

“Which means he still hasn’t told you what he and Emhyr are searching for.”

“No, but it’s a matter of time. He’s been disclosing more and more.” Then, she informed her cousin that she’d been invited on the mission.

“Excellent. Just make sure – whatever it is – that Emhyr never lays hold of it. If all goes to plan, the White Flame will be snuffed out by the end of the summer, and a new era will begin. A new era for both of us.”

Fringilla sighed deeply. Donato had contacted her months ago and had confided to her his knowledge of and his participation in a plot to unseat Emhyr. Initially, he’d only done it as a warning for his favorite cousin, to make sure she wasn’t a part of any collateral damage from the coup. Eventually, over time, she began to inform Donato of any inner dealings of the royal court to which she became privy. For her part in thwarting Emhyr’s plan and in aiding the usurpers, she’d been promised the throne of Toussaint, the duchy where her cousin, Anna Henrietta, had ruled up until her recent assassination. She had died without children, which complicated the line of succession, and almost a year later, the throne still sat empty. 

“Since when did we become traitors, Donato?”

“We’re not traitors, Gilla. We’re patriots. Emhyr is running this great Empire into the ground. Every year that this pointless war continues, the infrastructure here at home weakens more and more. We don’t have to conquer the world through war. It can be – and should be - done through commerce and trade. If all the resources, money, and man-power that were used on his war machine were directed toward technology and innovations…if we simply become the best and most efficient producers of goods on the Continent, we could rule the northern kingdoms without ever having to shed blood. Remember, the country with the strongest economy rules the world.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard all this from you before,” she retorted. “So, why does is still feel like treason?” 

“Because you’ve been taught to respect the office regardless of who’s in it, but what if the one holding office isn’t worth respecting? Are we just supposed to sit back and watch him destroy this great nation? It’s not treason, Gilla. It’s a revolution…against a tyrant.”

Fringilla sighed again. “I hope you’re right, Donato.”

oOo

_Geralt was running frantically under the full moon, his eyes quickly scanning his surroundings and peering closely into the shadows cast by the large boulders. The night air was eerily quiet. All he could hear was his own rapid breathing and the sound of his boots crunching the hard soil. But he kept running…he had to find her, and the more he ran, the more that the fear overwhelmed him, making him run even faster. And, then, suddenly, he stopped. Up ahead, he saw a body on the ground. He took a tentative step forward and then another, until he was running again. He came to a halt a few feet from the body, lying face down on the rocky plain. He had to see if it was her, but he was also too afraid to find out. Finally, he took two more steps forward, bent down, and slowly rolled the body over. He saw Evie’s face, with her eyes closed. It looked like she was sleeping. Suddenly, she opened her eyes to reveal empty eye-sockets, out of which crawled maggots and flies._

_“Save me, Geralt!” Evie shouted._

_As thick, black snakes emerged from the ground, he reached for his sword, but it turned to dust in his hand. The ground opened up, and Evie was dragged downward, all the while screaming, “Save me, Geralt, save me! Don’t let me die.”_

_“No!” he yelled._

oOo

The witcher rose up quickly with a gasp. Sweat was pouring from his body, and he was breathing fast. 

“It’s okay, Geralt. It was just a nightmare. It’s over,” said Evie as she reached out to hold him. He immediately pulled her into his arms. She could feel his heart pounding in his chest. 

They were both sitting up on a blanket in the middle of the orchard. After their mutual declarations of love earlier, they’d decided that they wanted to spend some quality, intimate time alone – away from the others. Geralt had returned from the campsite with a blanket, and they had lain together on it, the full moon reflecting off of the nearby Maranatha River. They had spent hours just talking, kissing, and holding each other. Evie had eventually fallen asleep in his arms, and not long after, the witcher had, for the first time in a year, let himself do the same.

The witcher’s breathing was slowing down, but he was still holding Evie tightly in his arms.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered in her ear. 

“I’m right here,” she whispered back. “I’ve got you…and you’ve got me.”

“I don’t want to let go,” he said, kissing her lightly on the skin in front of her ear.

“You don’t have to...ever. I don’t want you to.” She kissed him back. 

“Ever?”

He could feel her slightly nodding her head against his. “Forever.”

Geralt finally loosened his grip and pulled his head back so that they could look into each other’s eyes.

“Marry me.”

“What?” she half asked, half gasped.

“I want you to be my wife.”

“Geralt! You can’t be serious.”

He nodded his head, staring into her eyes. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“But, Geralt, we’ve known each other three weeks…Is this because you had some bad dream?”

The witcher shook his head. “No. It’s because I love you…and because…let’s be honest, we’re going on a very dangerous mission. Hell, how many times have we almost died just since we met? So, I want every day that I have left – however many that may be – with you as my wife. So…Evie…will you marry me?” he asked, his heart thumping so loud he could feel it in his ears. 

She didn’t say anything, but the witcher could see tears welling up in her eyes. As he looked at her, he suddenly found it almost impossible to breathe, his breath catching in his throat. He tried to swallow, but he discovered that that once simple act had become difficult to do, as well. Finally, she nodded her head, and the tears ran down her cheeks. 

“Is that a yes?” he asked, holding his breath.

“Yes, Geralt. It’s a yes.”

The air rushed from his lungs, and he immediately pulled her close. And, suddenly, a thousand thoughts and emotions were running through the witcher’s mind. He felt like he’d just taken a leap off the tallest of mountains - a mix of total exhilaration and a thought of, “What did I just do?” 

Then, he was quickly awash with feelings of gratitude and amazement. 

“Unbelievable,” he thought. “She actually wants to marry me…me.”

But, through the swirl of emotions, what he eventually felt more than anything else was a strange yet comforting sense of overwhelming wholeness. 

“She’s going to be my wife. She loves me so much that she actually wants to be my wife.”

And he just rested in that thought as he continued to hold her in his arms. Eventually, he pulled away from her just far enough so that he could look into her eyes. He shook his head slightly, still utterly amazed by not only his question but also her answer.

“Thank you, Evie.”

But before she could respond, he slowly leaned in and brought her lips to his. 

It was a long time later before they finally stopped kissing. Still sprawled out on the blanket and breathing heavily, Evie looked into her fiancé’s eyes and said with a smile, “But I don’t have a dress.” 

The witcher smiled back. “Oh, yes you do.” And then he quickly got up from the blanket.

Five minutes later, Geralt was standing in front of Evie. He had one hand behind his back, and he’d just given her a torch to hold. 

After lighting the torch for her, he said, “Hold it off to one side. I’d hate for your surprise to get burned.”  
  
He then revealed the dress to his betrothed. 

“Oh, Geralt. It’s gorgeous. Whose is it?”

The witcher had a confused look on his face. “What do you mean? It’s yours.”

“No. I mean, whose was it before?”

“No one’s. Nobody’s ever worn it.”

“What? Then, why do you have it?”

He smiled. “Remember in Ban Ard when you spent several hours in the boutiques looking for the perfect clothes for Lydial and Barcain? Well, while you were off becoming best friends with every salesperson, I saw this. I thought that you’d look pretty in it so…I was going to surprise you with it.” Then his smile widened. “Who knew that it’d be your wedding dress?” 

Evie was shaking her head. “You’re already the best husband ever,” she said with a beaming smile.

  
  
oOo

“I give this to you as a sign of my commitment,” declared the witcher. He had just lifted the chain of his wolf-head medallion over his head – making Evie gasp - and he was holding it in front of him, about to put it around her neck. As he was lifting his hands upward, she reached out with her own and stopped him.

“Geralt, you can’t,” she whispered. 

He nodded. “I can…and I will.” 

“But, Geralt -”

“Evie,” he interrupted. “This really isn’t the time to argue about this…right?” He asked with a smile, nodding his head and shifting his eyes to his left at everyone gathered in front of them before looking back at her. It was a couple of hours before sunset, and Geralt and Evie – along with everyone but Nikolai - were standing in the same meadow where the witcher had proposed to the historian the night before. 

That morning, after Evie had seen the meadow in the sunlight, she had decided that she wanted to get married there, for she thought that it was even more charming in the light of day. She had then, immediately, headed to the campsite and shared the joyful news with everyone there. After conferring with Lydial for a bit, she announced that the two of them needed to go into Ard Carraigh for the day. When Geralt said that he’d accompany them, Evie quickly informed him that that was out of the question. However, like any good couple, they’d eventually compromised, agreeing that Benny and Barcain would act as the ladies’ escorts. 

While they were gone, Geralt had headed to the river to bathe, shave, and clean his armor – perhaps better than he’d done so in years. Afterwards, he had walked up the gentle slope to the meadow which contained the small cluster of fruit trees. As he watched the cool breeze blowing through branches covered in white blossoms and a few butterflies gliding about, he knelt down, having decided to meditate and enjoy the solitude. But he just hadn’t been able to slow his mind down no matter what he tried. Thoughts of Evie, his nightmare, Ciri, and Essea all blew through his mind like a whirlwind. Finally, he admitted that, at that point in time, meditation was a lost cause so he just decided that he’d give talking to God another go instead. He spoke about his hopes for him and Evie. He spoke about the nightmare from the previous evening and the fears he had about losing her. And he spoke about his sadness that Ciri wasn’t around to see this happy day. Sadness that he’d never get to see her get married and start a family of her own, either. To his surprise, just as it had done the previous afternoon, though he’d received no answers from God, the act of praying had brought him much needed peace. And he still felt that peace as he stood in front of his bride.

Evie smiled back at her husband. “Right. We’ve got a honeymoon to begin.”

Geralt, with a smile, then placed the chain over her neck, and his eyes drifted downward to see his wolf-head medallion coming to rest on the sapphire-blue, light cotton fabric of her wedding dress. He, once again, soaked in what she was wearing. Intricate embroidery was stitched along a modest, scooped neckline, but the dress just barely covered her shoulders, leaving her neck and collar bones completely exposed. The bodice clung very tightly, showing off her curves, but once the dress reached the hips, its material loosened slightly and flared downward towards her feet. The sleeves were made of a very light, gossamer fabric that fluttered in the breeze, and the final touch was a ribbon-like belt, dotted with tiny, fake pearls, that wrapped around her waist and tied in front, the long ends hanging down towards mid-thigh. 

He lifted his eyes back up to hers and she could see the love within. 

“Beautiful,” he said.

oOo

Evie and Lydial’s morning had been full of activities. First, a stop at the hairdressers for a professional styling and cut to fix the amateur job done in the Blue Mountains above Ban Ard. Then, after an early lunch, they visited several shops until Evie had finally found the wedding gifts that she wanted for her husband-to-be. As they headed out of town, she stopped and rented a room at a bed and breakfast located on the outskirts of the city, from which she could actually see the small orchard where she’d be marrying later in the day. There, she bathed, shaved, and rubbed some just-purchased, vanilla-scented lotion over her body to make it soft and pleasant for Geralt later that night. 

It was in that same, rented room that Geralt and Evie stood just inches apart, less than an hour after their wedding. They stared into each other’s eyes and had small, joyful, expectant smiles on their faces. She then slowly turned around, revealing the buttons on the back of the dress. He pressed his body into hers and then bent down to kiss her at the point where the neck and shoulder met. He slowly worked his way up towards her ear, and she shivered from the sensation. Eventually, the witcher got around to unbuttoning the dress and then slowly turned her body to face him again. He reached up his hands and gently pulled the dress off of Evie’s shoulders. As he continued to pull the dress downward, she helped him by shifting her body from side to side until it finally fell from her bare breasts, slid past her hips, and pooled on the floor around her ankles. 

She stood completely naked in front of Geralt but felt absolutely no shame. He was her husband, and she was completely his. She saw his eyes slowly roaming over her entire body. She could see the deep desire within, and it thrilled her. Just watching him looking at her was making her body respond. Seeing her in that state caused Geralt to start undressing quickly. With her help, he was soon naked, as well. She looked down, and a big smile spread across her face. She reached forward and caressed him. 

“Looks like you don’t need any of Benny’s magic potions.”

“No, but I should’ve brought a vial…just in case you wear me out.”

“Plan on it.”

While kissing and touching one another, they moved over to the bed where Geralt lay Evie down. He was planning on taking his time and gladly giving her all the foreplay that she wanted, but she made it clear that she didn’t want any of that. 

“I want you…right now,” she got out between heavy breathing. 

Geralt didn’t need to be told twice so, moments later, the husband and wife became one and as close to perfectly intimate as it was possible for two flawed humans to be.

The first time, neither had lasted incredibly long. It had been over a year since the witcher had last had sex and even longer than that for Evie. But neither minded. They held each other tightly afterward. They made the silly jokes that only two lovers ever find amusing. They fondly recalled their days together in the mountains above Tarsus and how they’d first started falling in love with each other then. They simply cuddled together in bed and enjoyed continuing to connect emotionally and spiritually. It was a connection that had been present well before they’d ever had sex, and it had only deepened because of it. 

“Do you regret waiting?” the witcher asked his wife. “We could have been doing this for the last couple of weeks.” 

“Not at all,” she answered. “I’m so glad we did. This feels…right. I can’t even imagine it being more perfect.”

Geralt nodded his head and then gave a small laugh. “Yeah, maybe God knows what he’s talking about after all. Guess I should keep listening to him.”

“Oh…that reminds me!” she said as she quickly got out of bed. 

“Not that I mind the view, but where are you going, wife?”

Suddenly, Evie stopped and turned around with a smile. “Say that again.”

The witcher smiled back. “Come back to bed, my beautiful, kind, intelligent, sexy, honorable _wife_.”

“Okay. Just a second…husband.”

She grabbed something out of a bag by the dresser and returned to bed, holding it behind her back. Geralt sat up and leaned back against the headboard. Evie hopped into bed and straddled her husband. 

“Close your eyes.”

He obeyed, and then seconds later she said that he could look. He opened his eyes to see what appeared to be a book, though there was no title on the front or the spine. Whatever it was, it looked costly given its expensive, leather-bound cover. He untied the simple bow that was keeping it closed and then opened it in the middle. As he flipped through it, he furrowed his brow on seeing nothing but blank pages. 

“Uh…Evie…what is this?”

“My wedding gift to you.”

“An empty book?”

“For now.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Well, after I translate the Essean tome into Common for you, you’re supposed to read it.”  
  
The witcher’s face had a look of bewilderment on it. 

“How did…how did you know that’s what I wanted?”

Evie smiled at her lover. “Because I know you.”

He shook his head in amazement. “And you love me anyway.”

Evie nodded. “With everything I have.”

He placed the book on the bedside table and then swiftly and effortlessly flipped Evie onto her back. She could see the passion on his face. 

Looking down into her eyes, he said, “That’s the best gift you could have ever given me. Now…let me show you how grateful I am.”

Evie wasn’t sure if the “gift” he was referring to was the book or her love, but at that point, she didn’t really care.

oOo

Geralt felt incredibly rested. For the first time in over a year, his sleep the previous evening had been free from any nightmares. Evie, however, couldn’t stop yawning. While a couple of hours of sleep or meditation may have been sufficient for a witcher, it wasn’t enough for her. Not that she was complaining. She knew that she and her husband – along with the rest of their gang – would continue with their journey this morning. Therefore, it could, potentially, be a while before the newlyweds could have a repeat performance of the night before. They were both dressed and packed and heading for the door of their room when Evie halted her witcher.

“Geralt, wait.”

“What is it?”

Evie walked up to him and kissed him before saying, “This is our first morning as husband and wife. The first of many, I hope. To commemorate it, I got you something.” 

With that, she presented her hand, palm up. On it, rested a brand-new pipe. He looked into her eyes and smiled warmly. 

“Thank you,” he stated before taking it from her.

“The style is called a ‘Diplomat,’’’ she informed him. “Which I thought was appropriate for you.”

“Are you busting my chops?”

“No. I’m serious. The rest of the world may find it ironic since they view you as a mindless killer, but I know you. I know that you’d rather complete a contract through talking and curse-breaking than by slaughter. So…I thought it was the perfect pipe for you,” she finished, smiling. 

The witcher then inspected his new gift. This was no corncob or cheap clay pipe. In fact, it was the prettiest pipe he’d ever seen. The bowl and shank were dark brown and carried a smooth finish. It looked like a traditional “apple-style” pipe except its stem was slightly curved instead of straight. Then, looking closer, Geralt saw tiny markings etched into the sides of the pipe – on the bowl, shank, and stem. He pulled it closer to his face, his eyes growing wide at what he saw. 

“What the hell?” he said to himself. “Evie, are these runes?”

She nodded. “They are. The salesman said they’d make for ‘an overall superior smoking experience.’” She said the last with a snooty, aristocratic accent. “Let’s see…they’re supposed to keep the bowl cool but the chamber hot. Remove excess moisture. He also said that the runes make the material both stronger and heat resistance. He said it’d be next to impossible for the bowl to crack or the stem to break.”

Looking closely at the runes, Geralt then noticed another etching on the bottom of the bowl. At first, he thought it was another rune, but then, he saw that it was a carving of a tiny butterfly. When he realized what it was, he looked up at Evie. 

“Evie, this pipe was crafted by Le Papillon,” he stated incredulously.

She nodded. “Yeah, that’s what the shop keeper said.”

“Evie, you don’t understand. He’s one of the best. Do you know how much his pipes cost?”  
  
She laughed. “Yes, Geralt. I am _quite_ aware of what it cost.”

The witcher was shaking his head. “Evie…it’s too much. I don’t…I don’t deserve this.”

She suddenly got a serious look on her face. “Yes, you do, Geralt. Yes, you do. _Nothing_ is too good for you. Do you hear me?”

Geralt didn’t say anything. He just looked into his wife’s beautiful, kind, and fierce face, and he felt something catch in his throat. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve her, to deserve her love. And he realized, then, that she wasn’t just his wife. She was his best friend and his biggest fan. He’d never had anyone support and encourage him as much as she did, and he was completely amazed by it all. Eventually, he nodded his head slightly at her. 

“Okay,” he said, finally. 

She smiled warmly at him before pulling him into a hug. 

“Tonight, we can sit under the stars, and you can smoke your pipe and recite your poetry to me. No! Even better – you can write a poem for me. About our love.” As she broke the hug, he could clearly see the mirth on her face. 

“Whatever you want, my wife. Whatever you want.”


	19. Chapter 19

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 7

_Southwestern Kaedwen_

Ves, like a good soldier, was following Roche’s orders and simply observing from a distance, but after almost two full days, she’s was getting bored. She and her men had eventually caught up with the Redanian platoon and followed them at a distance. Radovid’s troops had headed north once they hit the Rinde-to-Daevon road, and they continued in the northeast direction until they reached the narrow pass in the southern part of the Kestral Mountains. Once there, they dispersed up into the mountains above the road. Ves and her crew had climbed even higher into the mountains to get a clear view of the enemy below. A third of the Redanian soldiers were hidden behind rocks and shrubs in the middle of the pass, with the other two-thirds divided equally on each end. For Ves, who had conducted numerous ambushes in her day, it was easy to see what the troops were planning. However, it was two days later and the Redanians had still not attacked any of the travelers. On several occasions, Radovid’s men did come down out of the mountains when they saw a single wagon approaching from Daevon, and after the wagon entered the pass, the group at the entrance would come down out of the mountain to cut off a retreat while the other two groups would descend the hill to stop the wagon’s forward progress. However, each time, the troops let the wagons continue on their journey after less than a five-minute inspection. She was, frankly, getting very fidgety and was contemplating doing something reckless when fate stepped in. 

Private Kowalski had the runs. He had eaten some kind of grilled rodent the night before even though it had smelled a little off. It was either that or go hungry, he’d thought at the time. But, now, he’d prefer hunger pains. All morning long, he’d been breaking wind, which was quite typical in any military setting given that they were always full of men. However, this gas smelled absolutely rancid, which was causing the soldiers hunkered down on either side of him to give him some particularly angry glares.

“For the love of Lebioda, Kowalski, will you go take a shit and give us some relief,” his corporal finally ordered.

“Yes, sir,” he finally got out between groans. 

“And Kowalski,” continued his superior officer.

“Yes, sir?”

“Someplace far away.”

Kowalski headed up the mountain as carefully as he could, stepping very gingerly as he climbed. However, with each step, he seemed to be jarring things loose and the pressure was becoming unbearable.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he pleaded with himself.

He’d traveled about fifty feet which, in his current state, he figured was as far as he was going to get. He saw a large boulder up ahead and duck-walked that way. Once he was around it, he immediately dropped his trousers and let loose. With all of his moaning and groaning, he never heard the soft steps of the former Blue Stripes commandos approaching. He let out a long sigh of relief and opened his eyes to see four crossbows pointed at his head. 

“Don’t make a move. Don’t make a sound,” ordered Ves in a whisper. 

After the soldier was bound and sitting downwind, Ves interrogated Kowalski. At one point, her eyes went wide with surprise upon hearing the soldier mention a certain name – Geralt of Rivia. The Redanians were there to ambush the witcher. She looked around the mountainside, noticing the vast number of boulders and large rocks lying about, and then she and her men came up with a plan. 

oOo

Malek was in a hurry. With the Redanian army fully present and entrenched along the Pontar River, it had taken him and his men longer than expected to find a place where they could cross over undetected. They were in eastern Redania and riding hard to the north, towards the Kestral Pass just west of the Kaedweni city of Daevon. He had been through that pass numerous times in his life and knew it was an ideal place for an ambush. He didn’t know for sure if his niece and her friends would be using the pass to enter Redania – his spy network had not given him that information - but given that he only had a handful of men riding with him, he simply didn’t have the manpower to set up ambushes in multiple locations. 

As the disguised Nilfgaardians approached the pass, they were a bit surprised by what they saw. It appeared that a large rockslide had recently occurred because boulders and rock were strewn over much of the road, the dust still lingering in the air. But that wasn’t what caught Malek’s attention the most. There was a dozen or more Redanian soldiers crouched down behind cover with their backs to the road. High above them was an indeterminate number of attackers raining down crossbow bolts and arrows. 

Malek gave the signal for his men to halt. He sat in the saddle taking in the spectacle in front of him, his mind running quickly through his different options. As his eyes continued to scan the battle, Fringilla’s question popped into his mind – just where did his loyalties lie - with the Emperor or with the Empire? Was it even possible to separate the two? His specific mission – given to him by the Emperor – had been to locate his niece and the sword, and getting involved in this skirmish would not further that particular mission. However, Malek understood that the Empire’s overall objective was to ultimately defeat Radovid and his forces. And here was a chance to capture or kill many of his soldiers. He didn’t know the identity of those higher up in the mountains who were attacking the Redanian troops below, but for at least that moment, he considered any enemy of Radovid to be an ally. 

“Your orders?” asked Timataal, instinctively knowing what was going through his friend’s head.

Drawing his sword from its scabbard, Malek turned to his men and answered, “Attack the Redanians.”

oOo

  
The two-wagon caravan went around – instead of through - Ard Carraigh, and then, two days after the wedding, they came to a fork in the main road, branching into three directions. The smallest road headed northwest and would eventually head all the way into the northern-most part of Kaedwen. A larger road continued westward to the city of Leyda and then through a pass in the Kestral Mountains toward the Redanian town of Gelibol. The third path went in a southwestern direction through the town of Daevon, over a southern ridge of the Kestrals, and then down into southern Redania towards the city of Rinde, home of the famous Codpiece Inn. 

While the two wagons stopped at the intersection, Barcain rode his horse down the southern path about twenty yards. He figured that everyone was saying their goodbyes before the wagon carrying Nikolai headed north. A few minutes later, after the first wagon still hadn’t come his way, he turned his horse around to see Benny, Geralt, and Evie in deep discussion. Before he could head back, he saw Geralt riding over in his direction.

“Change of plans,” informed the witcher. 

“How so?”

“We’re all going to Kaer Morhen now.”

Geralt saw a flash of anger enter Barcain’s eyes. “Why the hell is that?” 

“I told you this morning that I talked to Benny about our mission, and he’s decided-”

“Yeah, I remember,” interrupted Barcain. “I’m not an idiot. So, we’re changing plans and nobody bothered to consult with me?” 

Geralt looked hard at the former Nilfgaardian soldier. “I’m telling you now.”

“Exactly. You’re telling me. Not consulting with me. I thought that I had a say in this.”

“Is that what you’re so angry about? Alright, well Benny just told us that he wants to come along with us. And given his magical skills…well, he’s already proven his worth. However, we all agreed that he needs to stay with Nikolai until they can get him safely to Kaer Morhen. And since he can’t teleport, then we decided to just go with him.”

“Who’s ‘we?’”  
  
“Evie…and me. This is ultimately her show. And now that she’s my wife, my number one priority is her safety. So, we decided…but you obviously want to give your opinion in the matter. So, here’s me consulting you now. Do you have a problem with a skilled sorcerer joining our group?”

Barcain didn’t say anything for the longest time, just continued to stare back at the witcher. Finally, he exhaled deeply and gave a bit of an embarrassed smile.

“No, I don’t,” he answered. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. It just touched a nerve with me – not being asked. It reminded me of why I left my military post with Nilfgaard.”

The White Wolf was still looking at Barcain with a furrowed brow. “Okay,” he said nodding his head. “But we’re all good now?”

“Yeah, we’re all good,” he replied, the smile still on his face.

oOo

_Montecalvo_

Philippa stepped out of a portal inside the library of her palace, startling Oran. He had awoken to an empty castle so he’d spent his morning perusing through several of her texts on very dark magic.

“I need your assistance. In the lab,” she said, her tone making it clear it was an order not a request. 

He followed in step behind her, noticing a hair brush in her hand.

“Where’d you go?”

“An errand,” she said simply.

He sighed and then asked, “What’s with the brush?”

“It’s needed for a spell.”

Oran stopped. A few steps later, Philippa realized he was no longer following her and turned around.

“You brought me here for a reason, sister. You obviously want my help in one of your schemes. So, I need you to be a little more forthcoming with your answers.”

Philippa didn’t say anything for a moment. “Very well, brother. Do you know the intricate details of pyromancy?”

Oran shook his head. “The details...no.”

It was Philippa’s turn to shake her head. “Didn’t think so. You really shouldn’t have allowed yourself to be kicked out of school, Oran. Your lack of magical knowledge is embarrassing.”

Before Oran could respond, Philippa continued.

“But that can’t be changed now. Come…I’ll explain as we walk.”

Upon seeing Oran nod his head in agreement, the sorceress turned and walked with haste towards her lab.

“Pyromancy, in general terms, is magic that either uses fire in the spell to achieve the desired outcome, or it is magic that has some type of fire as the desired outcome. In our particular case this morning, it’s the former. I want to pinpoint the historian that I told you about, and I’m going to use pyromancy to do so. However, I need something of my target in order to find her. And not just any possession will do. Ideally, it needs to be something from her person – skin, blood, other fluids…or in this case, hair. I just returned from her home, where it fortunately still remains unoccupied, and found this,” she finished by holding up the hairbrush.

By this point, they were in her lab. Philippa quickly used a spell to extract all the long, dark-brown strands from the brush. They levitated in the air in front of her and then swirled together into an oval-looking hair ring and fell slowly into a large, granite bowl on the table before them. 

“There isn’t much hair here so I’m going to have to use all of it. We’ve only got one attempt at this so I’d like for you to watch carefully. Pay attention to every detail.”

Oran looked over at his sister. “Watch for what exactly?”

“There will be a vision in the flames above the bowl. Look closely at it for any type of marker indicating their location. It won’t last long.”

The Ghost nodded his head.

The sorceress began waiving her arms and hands over the bowl while chanting for several seconds. Suddenly, the hair in the bowl caught fire, and large flames leapt upward two to three feet above it. Oran peered closely and a small smile came to his face as a vision appeared of an attractive woman with medium length, dark brown hair. His eyes scanned the flames taking in every detail until several seconds later, the fire disappeared with a small, whooshing sound. He then stood up straight, thinking how beneficial this magical spell would have been – and still would be – while tracking would-be assassination targets. 

“Damn it,” he heard Philippa curse beside him. “It looked like they were in the middle of nowhere. They could be anywhere in Kaedwen.”

Oran shook his head. If his years as an assassin - sneaking in and out of private homes with high levels of security - had taught him anything, then it was to pay attention to details. And he’d caught a couple of such details in those few seconds. 

The Ghost smiled at his sister. “I don’t know where they’re going…but I know where they are.”

oOo

Later that evening, Timataal and Malek were high in the Kestral Mountains looking down at the road below. 

“What do you think of Ves’s story?” asked Malek.

Timataal shook his head. “She might be from Temeria. That part is probably true, but she and those men with her are no ordinary farmers-turned-freedom fighters. They’re professionals.”

Malek nodded. “I agree.”

“What do you make of Radovid being after your niece? How the hell would he even know about her?” 

Timataal was the only one of his men who knew of Malek’s relationship to Evie. And, after Ves had told Malek the results of her interrogation of Private Kowalski, they had all decided on staying at the pass for another day to see if the historian – and the witcher - would ever show up. 

Malek shrugged. “He’s obviously got a fantastic spy network…as we do.” 

“If she doesn’t show, what’s the plan?”

That was the question that had been running through Malek’s mind for the last twenty-four hours. Based on his last piece of intelligence, he knew that Evie was in Kaedwen and that she was heading west towards Redania, but that was the extent of it. He could spend weeks, maybe even months, traveling around both countries trying to find a clue to their whereabouts. But it had actually been a passing remark from Ves – when she mentioned she knew well Geralt of Rivia - that had helped Malek come to a decision. 

“We’ll follow the Temerians back into Redania.”

  
oOo

_Kaedwen_

The witcher looked down at his wedding gift – the leather-bound book – in his hands. He opened it to the first page and contemplated the scripture that he’d asked Evie to translate for him first – the poem of praise that Lydial had read several afternoons prior. The poem that had first caused him to pray. He read the words that stated that Essea was the father of the fatherless and immediately thought of all the orphans that were currently playing and laughing at the campsite. He read that Essea was the defender of widows, and then his eyes scanned toward Gretel and then to Lydial, who was busy cleaning up the cookware from their earlier dinner. He read again that Essea was the God who sets the lonely in families, and he noticed Rien and Barcain playing Gwent against each other, and then his eyes went back to Gretel, bouncing four-year old Nigel on her knee. He thought of her being released not only from a literal jail cell in Ban Ard but also the figurative jail of prostitution and drug addiction, and the words “You lead out the prisoners with singing,” leapt from the page. Finally, he read that Essea was the savior to the oppressed, and he considered them all. 

They had all been oppressed by someone or something. There were, of course, the obvious culprits – tyrants sitting on royal thrones, dangerous monsters terrorizing towns, common bandits wreaking havoc among citizens, elected officials abusing their authority, and everything in between. But there were also the more subtle, but no less oppressive, thoughts and behaviors found in the hearts of man – the prejudice against another based simply on race, gender, nationality, or socioeconomic status. Mostly characteristics that one had absolutely no control over. That kind of oppression, the witcher thought, was actually more difficult to battle than the former group. A monster – human or otherwise – terrorizing a town could always be dealt with, perhaps not easily, but at least swiftly and completely. But how could one go about eradicating the prejudice found inside the mind of an individual person or, even worse, an entire community? No sword could cut away that ill. And no amount of protesting and angry shouting would ever make that type of oppression disappear. At best, that’d just make it hide out of sight until it could resurface again later, and all the while, it’d still be simmering just below the surface of society. 

So, how could one actually go about changing the deep-seated beliefs in someone else? The witcher doubted it could be done, for if it could, then wouldn’t it have happened already. He assumed that it’d take both sides actually sitting down and being willing to take the time, energy, and desire to form a relationship with the other. To see that all living, sapient, soul-bearing beings were, ultimately, all the same deep down. The problem, the witcher knew, was that neither side, typically, was willing to even bother with making the attempt. So, how could there be reconciliation when neither side would even come to the table? Geralt shook his head, thinking, once again, that prejudice would simply never go away. 

However, despite the clearly harmful effects of the world’s external oppressors, the witcher believed that, perhaps, the more damaging oppression actually came from within – from an oppressive force of one’s own making. He recognized that most people were filled with differing levels of guilt, shame, insecurity, fear, negative thinking, and self-loathing. He could admit to having – or, at least, to having had - much of that himself, and he knew that a person would carry those with them wherever they went. He knew that those negative thoughts and emotions destroyed one’s inner peace and joy more than any external circumstance ever could. For one’s external circumstances could change, but unless they were dealt with, the inner demons of one’s mind and soul would torment a person wherever they lived, all day, every day.

The witcher came out of his thoughts and, once again, looked around the campsite. There was no doubt that they were a band of misfits, all just struggling to find their way, to find meaning in a dark and hopeless world. And then he looked back down at the book in his hands and read the words again. As he considered more deeply just how Essea was described within, he thought maybe – just maybe – the world wasn’t completely without hope after all. And thinking of hope made him think of Evie, and his eyes quickly found her.

He closed the book and made his way over to her and Lydial, who were still putting away the cooking supplies and utensils into the back of a wagon.

“Can I help?” he asked.

Evie smiled at him. “You cooked. We clean up. I thought that was the deal?”

“It is, but maybe I just want to spend time with you,” I replied. 

Twenty minutes later, he and Evie were sitting off by themselves, a little way from the campfire. His thoughts from earlier were still on his mind so he turned to his wife.

“What are your hopes for the future? I mean, after this sword-and-prophecy business is all over.”

She thought for a second before answering. “To be with you,” she stated simply.

“That’s it?”

“Well…I…I don’t want to say. I don’t want you to feel pressured to do something simply because I want it.”

“Evie, I thought we said no secrets with each other. I want to know what you want because…I want to give it to you – as much as I can. Making you happy brings me joy.”

“Okay.” Then, she breathed out deeply. “I’d love for us to live in Corvo Bianco. For you to put your swords away and become a simple vineyard owner. And…” Her eyes scanned the campsite and then into his eyes. “…maybe we could adopt?”

Geralt didn’t say anything for a bit. His eyes, like hers had done, looked at the kids scattered about. Then, he slowly nodded his head. 

“It’d be a completely different life than what I’m used to, but…that actually sounds really good to me, too.”

“Really?” she asked with excitement. “You’ll take me to Corvo Bianco after this is over?”

“Yeah,” he replied with a genuine smile. 

“You promise?” Her smile reached into her eyes.

“I promise,” he said. Looking into her face, he was pretty sure that he’d never be able to refuse her anything. “Of course, you may have to continue working. We’ll probably need the income since I know nothing of wine making or farming. I’ll probably bankrupt us within the first year.”

She shook her head. “We’re a team. I’ll help you. And even if we do lose it – so what? As long as we’re together, I’ll be content.” After a pause, she asked, “And adoption?”

The witcher nodded. “If that’s what you’d like. Have you already thought about what age or how many?”

Her eyes shifted across the campsite and then back to his. “Maybe…Isaac? I’ve seen just how much he’s taken to you.”

Geralt located Isaac several yards away, standing and looking over the shoulders of three others who were sitting on the ground, playing some kind of make-believe game with stick figures. He was a short and skinny kid, even for his age, and the tattered and very baggy clothes he wore made him look even scrawnier. The witcher stared at the lad for a while.

“Yeah.” He then looked at Evie. “We’ll have to ask him, of course, but, yeah…Though, let’s wait to discuss it with him until this whole affair is over, okay?”

She nodded with a warm smile and hugged her witcher tightly. Then, she whispered into his ear.

“Let’s grab a blanket and find a meadow. I’d like some private time with my husband.”

oOo

_Montecalvo_

“Oran, return to Hengfors immediately. I’ll open a portal for you. Gather your men and ride hard east through the Kestral mountains. I’ll wait for you there, where it intersects the road to Ard Carraigh.”

Philippa had just returned from central Kaedwen. Given that she hadn’t known in which direction they’d be heading, it had taken her half a day in her avian form to finally locate the two-wagon caravan heading north. That night, under the cover of darkness, she had approached the group’s camp. It had taken several hours, but she finally overheard them mentioning their ultimate destination of Kaer Morhen. And while she knew of the witcher stronghold, she didn’t know its exact location. 

“Understood,” said Oran with a nod. “Where will you be?”

“I need to head back and follow them,” she answered, and then she explained why. “Once I track them and know the way to Kaer Morhen, I’ll meet you and your men and lead us there.”

“Bugger, Philippa. You didn’t mention this historian was traveling with a witcher.”

“Pish posh, Oran. There’s only one of them, and they are highly overrated. Why do you think they’re almost extinct? If I wasn’t fully confident in your abilities, I would’ve never sought out your help. So…I’m quite sure that he’ll pose no problems for the Ghost, right?”

Oran was taken aback. He wasn’t sure that his sister had ever complimented him – directly, backhandedly, or any other manner. But he felt something that he hadn’t felt in a long time because of it – pride. He felt pride that his sister had turned to him, and he wasn’t going to fail her. 

He nodded his head. “Right. I won’t let you down.”

“Excellent, Oran. I knew that I could count on you.”

  
  
oOo

_Tretogor, Redania_

Roche didn’t even bother pretending to be angry. He knew well what was in Ves’s nature – that she acted rashly much of the time. He’d learned to accept it, and since he also knew well that she’d never change, then getting angry would be just a waste of time. So, when she returned five days after being sent out – with a group of strangers in tow - and told him that she and her men had done more than observe Radovid’s troops, he just sighed and said, “At least tell me it was worth it. That you found out something useful.”

“Well, these fellows may be useful,” she said with a smile, pointing at Malek and his men. They had told her that they were Redanians looking to overthrow Radovid’s tyrannical rule and had been heading to Kaedwen to find like-minded individuals willing to join their cause. 

Roche’s eyes scanned the men sitting in front of him, his face betraying nothing. 

“We’ll see. But, I meant, did you find anything useful with regards to Radovid?”

She shrugged and answered, “Well, I don’t know how useful it is, but it’s very interesting.”

“How so?” 

“His troops were in the pass to capture a historian from the Empire.”

“Huh. Did they tell you why Radovid wants her?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Then, how is it interesting, Ves?” asked Roche, getting a little short on patience.

Ves smiled. “Because the historian is apparently traveling with our favorite, white-haired witcher.”

It had been that piece of news – that both Ves and her superior officer personally knew Geralt of Rivia – that had convinced Malek to travel back to Redania with her. As a master in spy craft, Malek understood that the best way to learn of a person’s character, secrets, tendencies, and the like was to pick the brains of their friends and associates. And at the moment, the Temerians’ relationship with the witcher was the only clue he had to pursue. So, he was going to pull on that thread until there was nothing left to learn.

_oOo_

_Northeastern Kaedwen_

“Well, here it is,” stated Geralt. 

As he looked at the group around him, he wasn’t sure who was more excited at the sight – the young kids or his historian-wife. It had taken them a week, but they were now just outside of the witcher fortress of Kaer Morhen. 

“Wow! Growing up here must have been so much fun,” the witcher heard one of the kids say from behind him. As he gazed at the high walls of the fortress and then at the massive structure of the old castle itself, the memories from his youth came flooding back. He looked about at his childhood home – the only home he’d ever known - and he slowly shook his head. 

“It was a lot of things, but fun certainly wasn’t one of them,” he replied in almost a whisper. Then, he made eye contact with the youngsters and gave a small smile.

“But…that doesn’t mean it can’t be fun for you. Let’s get Nikolai settled in first, and then I’ll show everyone around.”

Several hours later, in the very late afternoon, the adults were sitting around three large tables in the giant, central hall of the keep. They had just finished an early dinner, and most of the kids had left to explore the grounds and other areas of the castle. Geralt had locked the doors to the main armory and lab so he wasn’t worried about their safety. There was one, however, who hadn’t gone off with the rest. Both Geralt and Evie noticed that Isaac had stayed behind and was off by himself on the other side of the large room. He was standing in front of the small, makeshift armory that consisted of a weapons rack holding two swords, an armorer’s table, and a grindstone. They watched as the small boy looked around and then tentatively reached out and grasped one of the swords by the hilt. He tried to lift it from the rack but found that it was too heavy so he grasped it with both hands. He eventually lifted it from its place and held it up in front of him. He took a two-handed swing at an imaginary foe in front of him, but since he barely weighed more than the sword itself, he almost lost his balance in doing so. 

“Aren’t you afraid he’s going to hurt himself?” asked Evie.

The witcher shook his head. “Nah. I took the sharp swords down to the main armory earlier. The ones over there are training swords. They couldn’t cut through porridge.” 

After watching Isaac for another minute or so – with Geralt wincing the entire time - he finally said, “Damn it. This is killing me. Let’s go over there. Watching him swing a sword like that is making my head hurt.”

oOo

“Gretel, I brought you some food. You missed dinner again,” said Lydial.

The young woman looked up from where she was wiping the sweat off of Nikolai’s forehead.   
  
“Oh…thank you, Lydial,” she said, putting the plate beside her and then taking a small bite of the roasted meat. 

“You’ve been pretty tireless in helping Benny and Rien look after Nikolai. Benny says you’ve got the makings of a healer inside of you.”

Gretel smiled. “He said that? Really?” 

Lydial nodded and smiled back. “Is that something you’ve thought of pursuing?”

Gretel’s smile faded, and she shook her head. “Oh, no. I…I could never do that.”

“No? Then, why have you taken to caring after Nikolai so easily?”

Gretel hesitated, staring down at the young man. Finally, in a very soft voice she said, “He reminds me of Heinrich, my husband.” She looked quickly at Lydial and then back at Nikolai again. “I mean, obviously, just the way he looks. I don’t know what his personality is like yet.” 

Lydial nodded. “What was Heinrich like?” she asked.

Gretel looked up at Lydial with a wistful smile. “He was so kind to me. I loved him so much…It’s been five years, Lydial. Will I ever stop missing him?”

A sad smile came across the elf’s face. 

“I still think of Dilis almost every day, and he died decades ago. But, yes, the pain does eventually go away, but you’ve got to face it. Feel it. Go through it. If you just try to numb it or push it down, it’ll never leave.”

Gretel nodded. She looked again at Nikolai and then back at Lydial. “Can you teach me how?” she asked, with a touch of hope in her voice.

Lydial gave her a smile. “Well, I can tell you how I got through it. Would you permit me to tell you of my God, Essea?”

The former prostitute stared into the older widow’s eyes and nodded.

oOo

“What are you pretending to be fighting?” asked Geralt as he and Evie approached Isaac, still struggling with the sword. 

He stopped what he was doing and looked up a little embarrassed. 

“A cockatrice. Benny told me the story of the ones you two fought.”

“Is that right?” 

Isaac nodded his head. He looked down shyly and then back up at Geralt. 

“Geralt, do you think I could grow up to be a witcher like you?”

The White Wolf looked down at the boy with a furrowed brow. 

“And why exactly would you want to be like me?”

The little boy swallowed and then looked down at his feet. When he looked back up at Geralt, he had tears welling up in his eyes. 

“So, that no one would mess with me. So that no one would hurt me…or my family.”

Evie’s heart broke at both his words and his tears. Neither she nor Geralt had asked Isaac about the scar across his face or how he’d become orphaned, but she guessed it was not from some simple accident.

Geralt nodded his head and then knelt down on one knee in front of Isaac.

“Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you can’t be a witcher.”

Isaac blinked his eyes, causing a tear to fall down his cheek. “But why not?”

“I had to go through a horrible transformation to become a witcher. I was about your age, in fact. But…that knowledge…of how to conduct the Trial of Grasses, it’s been lost.”

Upon hearing that, the little boy just lowered his head. 

The witcher breathed deeply a few times and then said, “But…Isaac,” causing the lad to look up and into the witcher’s face. “…if you’d like, I can still train you how to use a sword.”

Suddenly, the little boy’s face lit up with a smile. “Really?”

The witcher nodded.

Then, the smile left Isaac’s face. “But, when? You’re leaving in the morning.”

“I’ll…” then Geralt turned and looked at Evie. He reached up and grabbed her hand. “We’ll come back. Would you like for us to come back for you?”

“Yeah! And then you’ll teach me?”

“Everything I know. But…I need something from you, okay?”

Isaac nodded. “Okay. What is it?”

“If you really want to be like me, then I need two things from you.”

“I’ll do anything!” exclaimed the young boy quickly.

“Alright, first lesson – don’t agree to anything in life until you’ve heard the conditions first. Got it?”

The boy nodded again. “Okay…what are the…conditions?” he asked, unfamiliar with the word.

The witcher smiled. “You may not like them, but…first, I don’t want you practicing with a sword while I’m gone. I don’t want you developing bad habits that we’ll have to break later.”

Geralt expected an argument, but to his surprise, Isaac simply nodded. “Okay,” he said. The boy really was a lot different than Ciri, the witcher thought to himself.

“Second, while we’re gone, I need you to develop your mind. That is a man’s greatest weapon. Do you know how to read?”

The boy lowered his head and shook it but just barely.

“Hey, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but…we do need to remedy it.” 

Geralt then looked up at Evie. “Do you have the Essean tome in Common?” he asked.

“Right here,” she answered, pulling it from her satchel. 

“Do you agree to the conditions, Isaac?”

The lad looked into Geralt’s eyes, and the witcher could see resolution within. He nodded his head and said, “I agree.”

Geralt smiled. “Good. Then, let’s get started. Right now.”

oOo

_Vizima, Temeria_

“The White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Foes” slammed the desk with his hand. The man standing across from him, with head bowed, trembled even more than he’d already been.

The Emperor of Nilfgaard had historically been quite unflappable. Of course, it was easy for him to act that way when virtually every plan he’d ever concocted over the last two decades had fallen into place. But, in the last year, it seemed that he’d encountered one roadblock after another. And, now, he’d just been informed of yet another failure to execute his orders. Emhyr’s patience was at an end. 

“And just why were the elves at Dol Blathanna not exterminated?” he asked Captain Vorscht, commander of the garrison at Aldersberg.

“Your Majesty,” Vorscht stated in a quaky voice. “The Aen Seidhe simply were not there. The gates to the ground were locked from the inside. When we finally breached the wall, we found no one there. We then checked the palace. It was empty as well.” Before the Emperor had a chance to explode again, Vorscht quickly continued. “But that wasn’t the only strange occurrence, Your Majesty. On the third floor of the palace, there was a room that seemed to be magically sealed. No matter what we tried, we simply couldn’t break through.”

The Emperor glared at Vorscht. “You are dismissed, Captain,” he said with little emotion. He was once again under control, but the impatience was boiling under the surface. After the soldier exited the room, Emhyr called for his chamberlain.

“Mererid, summon my sorceresses.”

The chamberlain suddenly had an uncomfortable look on his face. 

“My deepest apologies, Your Highness, but they are not present.”

“Where have they gone?”

The elderly man bowed his head even lower.

“Your Majesty, no one knows. Lady Eilhart and Lady Yennefer have not been seen in weeks, and Lady Vigo in three or four days.”

Emhyr stared at his chamberlain for what felt like an hour to the servant. Finally, he spoke in a very even tone. 

“Mererid, are the members of my War Cabinet present in the palace, or are they missing as well?”

“They are present, Your Majesty.”

“Well, praise the Sun for minor miracles,” he replied sarcastically. “Have them convene in the War Room in one hour.”

Mererid nodded his head and quickly left the chambers.

Ten minutes later, Emhyr walked past several armed guards in a highly secluded part of the palace. He unlocked a door to which only he possessed the key and stepped into a completely dark room. He carefully shut the door and raised a lit torch above his head to get a better view of what lay before him. The light from the torch’s flames reflected back at him in more than a dozen lifeless, obsidian-black eyes. To the Emperor, they looked like large doll’s eyes. As he looked about the cavernous room, he recalled a very specific conversation with Philippa Eilhart from almost a year back.

_“Your Majesty, what you are asking is very dangerous.”_

_“Explain,” he commanded._

_“Magical constructs have limited intelligence. They can typically only follow simple, direct instructions. Therefore, historically, they have only been found to be useful for defensive purposes. They can understand and follow a simple order, such as, ‘Guard the castle,’ or ‘Kill all intruders.’”_

_“And if they were given more complex commands?” the Emperor asked._

_“Such as, ‘Go down the hill, cross the Pontar River, and kill every one wearing a red uniform?’”_

_“Yes, something such as that.”_

_“That, Your Majesty, is unknown.”_

_“Miss Eilhart, you are in my court as an advisor. Therefore, give me your best, most-highly educated guess as to what would happen.”_

_“Very well. I see two possible, most-likely outcomes. One, they would only be able to follow the first part of the command. After that, they would simply stop, not remembering and not knowing what to do next.”_

_“And the second?”_

_The smallest of smiles came to her face._

_“Total chaos. Without clear, understandable commands, they’d simply go about doing what they do best – causing complete death and destruction of everything in their sight.”_

_“That sounds like the result that I desire.”_

_“You misunderstand me, Your Excellency. They would be uncontrolled – like a hurricane. Not just killing Redanian soldiers, but also moving across the countryside, destroying everything in their path. They could even turn around and come after your own men.”_

_“Hmm. You have given me much to consider.”_

_The sorceress didn’t say anything, just nodded._

_The Emperor was silent for the longest time. He finally spoke. “You have done your duty and informed me of the risks. Regardless, I want you to build them for me. I will decide later how to use them.”_

_Philippa smiled. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”_

oOo

_Tretogor, Redania_

Sitting in a small room in a small shack on a small hill east of the city, Ves and Malek sat around a small table with a large bottle of vodka. Since arriving in Tretogor, Malek had been tagging along with Ves whether she ventured into the city in disguise or simply sat at an observation post overlooking the goings-on below. In the last four days, the spy had gradually developed a relationship with the short haired blonde, slowly earning her trust. It didn’t hurt – he realized - that she clearly found him attractive. He’d carefully walked the fine line of subtly probing her for information without being so ham-handed that she ever became suspicious. In his time there, he had not yet once mentioned the witcher. 

“You and Roche must have had some pretty amazing adventures together, huh?” Malek asked as he poured both himself and Ves their fourth shots of vodka. 

They had come off duty an hour earlier, which meant that they could normally get seven or eight hours of sleep. But, Ves had had a different idea and pulled out the bottle of alcohol. Malek smiled inwardly, knowing few things loosen one’s tongue like booze. 

“Yep,” she answered, downing the shot.   
  
“Met some interesting people?”

“Yep,” she replied again as she grabbed the bottle. 

“Who would you say was the most interesting?”

Ves downed another shot and then stared hard into his eyes for several long moments. “I’m tired of talking,” she said. “See that bed there in the corner?” she asked, her eyes darting to the bed and then back to Malek.

Malek nodded, a look of amusement on his face.

“Let’s use it.” 

“Are you quite sure, Ves?”

“You saved my ass in the mountains. Let me repay you for your kindness.” 

Then, she stood up, walked over to Malek, straddled him in his chair and began  
kissing him roughly, her hands running through his long, salt-and-pepper hair. 

As the two came up for air, he responded, “I do believe that you’ve convinced me.”

oOo

Five hours later, Ves woke up hungover, naked, and alone. Her throat was dry, her head was pounding, and her body was quite sore down below. But the man who had made her sore was nowhere to be seen. She walked over to a basin of water on the dresser, and as she splashed water in her face, she tried to remember the details of the previous evening, but given that her brain was still soaked in alcohol, those events were still in a fog. As she continued to think on it harder, she could have sworn that during a rest break in between one of their sessions, he’d asked about the witcher and she had told him about her and Roche’s adventure last year fighting the Wild Hunt at Kaer Morhen. Before drinking down a cup of water, she shook her head, wondering why of all things they would have discussed that. Then, her eyes drifted over to the table, where she saw a note. She stretched her arms over her head as she walked over to it. It read:

“Ves,

It’s been a pleasure, but duty calls me and my men elsewhere. I wish you well on achieving our mutual objective. Perhaps, if fate is kind, we shall meet again. Until the next.”

The Temerian sighed. 

“Just your luck, Ves,” she said to herself as she crumpled up the note. “The first guy that you’ve slept with in ages that was actually worth a damn, and he leaves the next day.”

oOo

_Northeastern Kaedwen_

Philippa stood in front of Oran and his fifteen men several hours after sunset. They were less than a mile away from the witcher fortress of Kaer Morhen, and Philippa had just returned from a quick reconnaissance flight to see that everyone was inside the keep. Oran and his men had dismounted their horses and were going to travel the last bit on foot for a more stealth-like approach. She had already informed them that there were only two individuals – the witcher and the soldier – who were armed. The remainder of the group consisted of an old man, several weak women, and numerous helpless children.

“Remember, do not kill the historian. She must remain alive,” said the sorceress, giving last minute instructions. “The rest…do as you will.”

That elicited many smiles from the men before her. 


	20. Chapter 20

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 8

The witcher opened his eyes and rose up slowly from next to Evie. They’d fallen asleep in his bedroom located on the third floor of the tower and had left the balcony doors wide open, enjoying the cool, mountain breeze. He sat very still, listening quietly, and then, almost immediately, he heard the familiar noise again – the noise that had stirred him from his sleep. It was a noise that he’d heard a thousand times in his life so it was unmistakable. It was the sound of the main gate being raised. He quickly shook Evie awake.

“Get up. We’ve got visitors,” he said before he grabbed his clothes and weapons and ran down the circular staircase.

Geralt leapt over the last few steps of the staircase, landed on the ground floor, ran through the kitchens and then out into the main hall of the castle. Except for Nikolai and Rien, everyone else was sleeping on cots or on makeshift pallets on the floor on one side of the large commons area near a very large, open fireplace. The wood within was still burning brightly, with the flames casting light and shadows on the castle’s walls. He woke Benny and Barcain and told them what he’d heard. As they went about waking and warning the rest, the witcher hurried to the other side of the vast room to the small armory. His eyes hastily scanned the tables while he snatched up a few random materials, and then he headed for the front doors of the castle. He approached the doors and paused for a moment to listen. Hearing nothing on the other side, he cracked the door open just a hair in order to peer through. He cursed to himself as he saw more than a dozen, heavily-armed figures lurking through the courtyard gate and heading his way. He barred the doors shut and then began assembling some on-the-fly explosive devices from the different parts that he’d picked up from the armorer’s table and from the bombs off of his bandolier. 

oOo

After arriving at the lowered gate of the main entrance, Philippa Eilhart had changed into her owl form and had flown over the high wall of Kaer Morhen. As she landed, she converted back into her human body and then quickly found the lever that would open the gate, allowing her brother and his men entry.

Five minutes later, the large group made its way in the darkness through the outer grounds and courtyard of the fortress and towards the castle itself. As they approached the steps that led up to the front doors of the keep, five men moved forward while the rest fanned out behind them on the steps below. Oran slipped into the shadows and then cast his best spell – the one that would conceal his presence. Philippa had made it clear to him earlier that he had only two main objectives – find the historian and her book and, if possible, kill the witcher. Those were her objectives, too. The rest of the men were there to simply cause death, confusion, and mayhem – in other words, to keep the witcher occupied. The point-man approached the front door, slowly turned its handle, and pushed but with no success. He looked back at Philippa and shook his head. The sorceress walked slowly up the steps, and the five men near the doors immediately and swiftly moved behind her. She positioned herself fifteen feet in front of the doors, and for just a moment, she stood completely still – as if purposefully building the tension. Then, she began moving her hands and arms in an intricate pattern while uttering – to the men around her - unintelligible words. She was planning to cast the most powerful spell that she knew.

oOo

Geralt had just finished making and placing some hastily-constructed booby traps when his ears picked up a sound from the outside. He then heard someone trying to push open the heavy wooden doors. He quickly swiveled his head to assess the situation behind him. Since he couldn’t see them anywhere, he assumed that Lydial and Gretel had taken the five youngest kids and hidden out of sight, but the three teenagers and the remaining adults were all standing in a line on the far side of the main hall, all holding various weapons at the ready. He sighed, wishing that the teenagers had hidden, too. He was afraid that they’d just get in his way and complicate matters. 

Suddenly, he heard the unmistakable sounds of a spell being cast coming from the other side of the doors. He immediately cast a Quen Sign and started sprinting away from the doors. A second later, the witcher felt and heard an incredible explosion coming from behind him – an explosion that shook the entire castle and caused cracks to emerge throughout the ancient, run-down edifice. A large chunk of the wooden door hit the witcher in the back, knocking him off his feet and slamming him into a nearby stone column. He groggily got to a knee and looked back at the front door of the castle, but there was nothing to see. Smoke and dust filled the air. 

oOo

Philippa cast her spell towards the front door, and to her surprise, the entire front wall exploded, blowing her and the closest men backwards and down the steps. Little did she know that the witcher’s explosives on the other side of the door had greatly added to the blast. She got to her feet – her ears ringing - and felt a stinging sensation coming from her face. She reached up with her left hand and felt a very large splinter impaled in her cheek. 

“That gods-damned witcher,” she said through gritted teeth as she pulled it loose. The thought flashed through her mind that, perhaps, she should finally stop underestimating him. 

She looked around her and suddenly felt fortunate that the splinter was the only damage that she’d sustained. Two of the men were on the ground with large shards of wood and stone protruding from their bodies, blood pouring from their wounds.

She looked again at the front of the castle and immediately began casting another spell. A few seconds later, a gale force of wind erupted from her hands and headed towards the front entrance. As the smoke and wind blew into the castle, Philippa and the rest were able to get a clear view of the castle’s front facade. The explosion had not only blown the doors to bits, but it has caused severe structural damage to the entire front wall. The majority of the wall and even parts of the roof had fallen down into a large, ten-foot tall mound of stone and mortar. 

She turned around and spoke to the men in front of her. 

“Well…what are you waiting for?”

As the bandits started forward, she grabbed two men by the sleeves of their shirts. 

“You two, with me,” she ordered. “We’ll attack them from both sides.”

She quickly transformed into an owl and flew upwards toward the balcony high on the tower. She landed cautiously and listened closely to determine if there was anyone within. Not hearing anything, she changed back into her human shape and peeked her head inside to confirm that she was alone. In the middle of the bedchamber, there was a lit, oil lamp on a table which allowed her to see that the room was indeed empty. She then cast a portal on the balcony, with its “twin” opening on the ground below. The two men immediately entered the portal, and unbeknownst to them, Oran followed right behind. After the two outlaws, per the sorceress’ orders, headed down the stairs to join the action below, Philippa looked around the room. Oran, still concealed, heard her laugh.

“It can’t be,” she exclaimed with surprise. 

She walked over to the bedside table and picked up an expensive-looking, leather bound book. Opening it up, she laughed again.

“It appears that she’s translated the tome into Common. It looks, dear brother, as if we may not need to keep the historian alive, after all.”

oOo

The dozen men from Hengfors crawled over the high mound of rubble. The cloud of dust was still in front of them, filling the main hall of the castle and hindering their ability to locate their prey. They all stepped off the pile of rocks and back onto the smooth, solid floor and started to fan out, and it was at that point that they began to see something glowing coming towards them. Out of the smoky fog walked two men, both wielding swords. But the eyes of all were focused on the man on their right. The witcher, having just cast the Quen Sign, was covered in an orange shimmer. He paused for just a moment, his eyes taking in his enemy, and then he grabbed a bomb from his bandolier and tossed it in their direction. And the battle began.

oOo

Oran’s two men had followed Philippa’s directive and raced down the tower’s stairs. Halfway down the staircase, they heard a bomb detonate from somewhere in the castle, followed by the familiar shouts of hand-to-hand combat. They reached the bottom floor and stopped momentarily, for in front of them were two doors. The one on the left was open, and it seemed as if the noises of the fight were coming through there, but the two could clearly hear sounds emanating from behind the second door, as well. 

“Think someone’s hiding in there?” asked one.

“Only one way to find out,” answered his partner.

The two stepped lightly across the room that was barely illuminated by moonlight coming from some small windows in the tower. They reached the door, and as one grabbed ahold of the handle, he turned to the other and they nodded their heads in unison. The first tried to jerk the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. At that point, the second noticed that there was a key in the lock. It never even crossed their minds why – if there was someone hiding inside the room - the door would be locked from the outside. They simply turned the key and then threw the door open, their weapons at the ready. 

They stood in the doorway for just a moment, peering into the interior of the completely, pitch-black room. Suddenly, with a startling roar, a monster leapt out of the darkness and onto both men, knocking them to the ground. Their screams filled the air as claws and teeth tore at their flesh. An instant later, a second monster dove into the first and knocked it off the two men. The two creatures tumbled and rolled across the stone floor before both springing nimbly to their feet. Rien quickly looked over at the two corpses in the doorway and was both relieved and confused to see that they were complete strangers. He then sensed a movement from his left, and when he turned his eyes back in Nikolai’s direction, he just caught a glimpse of the werelion’s tail disappearing through the doorway and into the common area of the castle. 

oOo

Evie and Benny were crouched behind a tipped-over table, with Evie shooting her crossbow at the various intruders from Hengfors who were preoccupied with either Geralt, Barcain, or the three teenage orphans. She just missed hitting one of the men with a headshot, and upon hearing the bolt whistle past his ear, he looked up to see its source. Spotting Evie’s head behind the table, he started running towards her. Benny looked at the attacking man and then over at Evie, who was doing her best – but struggling - to re-cock the bowstring. He looked back at their attacker to see he was going to get to them before she was ready to fire again. 

As the sword-wielding man got within ten feet of them, he yelled, “Evie, close your eyes,” and then immediately cast a spell that shot forth the brightest of white light. 

For the approaching mercenary, it was like staring into the sun, and he was completely blinded. He instinctively stopped running and brought his hand up to his closed eyes. 

“Now, Evie!” yelled Benny. “Shoot him now.”

Evie raised up, pointed the crossbow at the still-blind man, and put her bolt right through his chest. 

“Yes!” exclaimed the mage. “Let’s get another,” he shouted with a smile on his face.

While none of Oran’s band of hoodlums and outlaws were novices in terms of killing, none could compare to the witcher. For that matter, none had the swordsmanship of Barcain either. The battle was actually going in the defender’s way until Nikolai appeared with a loud roar. In his animal state, he could not distinguish between friend or foe, and what had once been a simple – though still deadly – two-sided affair, suddenly morphed into absolute chaos despite Rien’s best effort to rein in the out-of-control werelion. Then, the situation worsened even more as a portal opened on the far side of the hall, near the multitude of bookcases. 

Out walked the Eilhart siblings – though, none could see Oran in his invisible state. Immediately, Philippa began casting lethal spells about, with a gleeful smile on her face. She saw the witcher, fifty feet away surrounded by a handful of men. Knowing that any spell she sent the witcher’s way would be inadvertently blocked by his attackers, she cast an explosive lightning spell towards the ceiling directly above where the group was fighting. Geralt heard the explosion above him and looked up to see chunks of stone raining down. He quickly cast a Quen Sign and dove out of the way as the heavy debris crashed to the floor. The sorceress then caught a glimpse of Evie out of the corner of her eye and cast a spell in her direction. Benny saw the bright wave of energy heading towards Evie and leapt in front of her. He took the spell in the chest and then fell to the floor with a thud. His body lay motionless.

oOo

After being shaken awake by Benny, both Lydial and Gretel had grabbed the five youngest kids and had hidden behind the first thing they noticed – the numerous thick, heavy bookshelves that were on one side of the great hall. They all sat on the floor, with Lydial and Gretel holding the two youngest in their arms while the other three were crouched down, hugging their own knees. When the door exploded and the battle began, they all crowded even closer together, most of them crying in fear. But, eventually, Isaac – the curious lad that he was – began to peek around the edge of the bookshelf. He could see bodies and swords clashing, but in the darkness, he was unable to distinguish one person from the next. He was looking for Geralt, and then suddenly, across the way, he noticed a glowing orange light encircling one of the combatants, and he knew that was the witcher. Soon after, he heard a small thunder-like noise coming from nearby. He craned his head out further to see a fiery, oval ring flashing a few feet away. A woman he’d never seen before stepped out of it and commenced to casting spells at Geralt and the rest of his friends. He looked back and forth from her to the armory several times. In the darkness and the chaos, neither Lydial or Gretel noticed Isaac get to his feet and run towards the weapons rack.

oOo

“Oran, grab the historian!” Philippa yelled at her brother before continuing to cast a barrage of spells about the castle. 

She could feel her energy draining, but she knew she had another five-minute’s worth of fight still left in her. Suddenly, she felt a semi-painful blow against her hip. She turned around to see what she thought was, at first, a halfling. But, peering closer, she saw that it was a skinny, little boy holding a large sword. She noticed the determination in his eyes as he awkwardly swung the much-too-heavy weapon back and above his shoulder for a second strike. Then, he swung it forward with all of his might, but the sorceress simply took a step backward and avoided the attack. Having missed his target, Isaac lost his balance and fell, the training sword slipping from his hands and clattering across the floor. He scrambled over to the dull weapon, struggled to pick it up by its hilt, and turned to face his enemy again. 

“You won’t hurt my family!” he yelled defiantly, a fierce expression on his face. 

Philippa cocked her head slightly to the side as if she could not quite discern what she was seeing in front of her. Isaac half-ran and half-stumbled towards her, and just before he reached her, the sorceress cast a quick spell, and lightning jumped from her hands and impacted the little boy’s chest. It knocked him off his feet and threw him backwards, the sword flying through the air and bouncing off a nearby bookcase. She then turned her attention back to the main battle, and she was just about to cast more destructive spells when she heard a roar in front of her. She immediately cast a simple, defensive spell right before a lion-like monster leapt in her direction. The werelion crashed into the shield, causing it to shatter and propelling both of them backwards several feet. The monster was instantly on its feet again, but when it searched for its prey, it was no longer there. Philippa, now in owl form, was flying towards the front door. 

The werelion’s eyes followed the owl in flight and briefly considered chasing it, but then its sensitive nose picked up the smell of nearby humans coming from behind the bookcases. As it pounced that way, it was suddenly hit from behind by Rien. The two crashed into the damaged stone wall, causing the scaffolding attached to the wall – a scaffolding which housed three or four additional heavy bookcases - to crack. Lydial and Gretel heard the ominous snap of wood above them and immediately grabbed the remaining orphans and fled the area. As the two werelions struggled with one another, the scaffolding broke and fell, bringing down not only a portion of the stone wall but also the thick, book-filled cases on top of the two beasts. 

oOo

Evie bent over and shook Benny.

“Benny, are you okay?” But the sorcerer was unresponsive.

The historian was about to check his pulse when, suddenly, her eyes went wide. She grabbed the knife from the scabbard on her thigh, dropped to one knee, and she spun to face what was behind her. As she spun, she swung her knife in front of her. She felt the sharp blade make contact with something, and then she immediately heard a cry of pain. She was confused, though, because she couldn’t see anything in front of her. Then, she heard a cruel voice. 

“Bitch, I was just going to take you, but now…I’m going to hurt you bad for that,” the mysterious voice hissed. 

Evie screamed as loud as she could. “Geralt!”

The witcher heard his wife yelling his name, and without a moment’s hesitation, ran in her direction. He saw her blindly swinging her knife back and forth in front of her. He hurdled the turned-over table and stood in front of her, casting a Quen dome around them both. And then his medallion vibrated. His eyes scanned the darkness around them.

“There’s somebody here, but he’s invisible,” she blurted out.

The witcher nodded. He immediately dropped the Quen and cast a stream of fire from his left to his right. They both instantly heard a yelp and saw the flames catch ahold of the invisible man.

oOo

Philippa stood atop the rubble near the front door and, with what little magical energy she had left, began casting more explosive spells around the Kaer Morhen castle. She blasted away at both load-bearing columns and parts of the ceiling. Finally, as she started to feel light-headed and blackness began encroaching on the edges of her vision, she cast a portal, with the other opening near her brother, and yelled, “Oran, we are leaving!”  
  
Oran rolled on the floor trying to extinguish his flaming clothes. He got to his feet and immediately threw his knife at the witcher, who had his sword raised and in front of him. As soon as the knife left his hand, the concealment spell ceased to work on it. Geralt’s eyes picked up on the metal blade and had just enough time to raise his left forearm a fraction in front of his face. The tip of the knife plunged into Geralt’s arm, but his armor stopped it from penetrating too deep. The attack distracted him just long enough for the Ghost to leap through the nearby portal, which then closed an instant before the witcher could jump through it himself. Geralt turned around and saw the other portal near Philippa. He began running towards her, but she was too far away. Before he was even halfway there, she cast another portal and a moment later, she and the invisible man were gone. 

“Damn it,” cursed the witcher, but then he turned and rushed back to Evie. 

He found her kneeling beside the still unconscious Benny. 

“Evie, are you okay?” he asked, pulling her into a tight embrace.

“Yes, just scared to death,” she answered, finally feeling safe now that she was in her witcher’s arms. “Your medallion saved me. I felt it vibrate…so I just took out the knife and started slashing like a crazy person.”

Before they could say anything else, the witcher picked up some low growling coming from the other side of the large hall. He looked over to see both part of the west wall and all the bookcases in a giant heap. 

He got a grim look on his face and said, “Stay here. Nikolai may be over there, okay?”

She nodded and said, “Please be careful, Geralt.”

The witcher, with his silver sword drawn, approached the rubble, but he noticed he wasn’t the only one. Gretel, too, was walking slowly towards the noise. 

“Gretel, back the hell away,” Geralt growled at the girl. 

“He may be hurt. We have to save him,” she replied with a desperate tone. 

The witcher didn’t bother to answer her. He just grabbed her by the back of the collar and yanked her backwards and behind him. He stepped forward cautiously and heard what sounded like the heap of stones shifting as rocks were being moved, tumbling down the pile and falling to the floor. The wolf-head medallion that had been worn by both his mentor and his daughter twitched against the monster-hunter’s chest as a werelion stood up from behind the rubble. There were several bleeding wounds on its body. 

“Rien?” the witcher asked hopefully.

The werelion answered with a menacing growl and crouched low, as if getting ready to spring forth.

“Damn it,” he said in response. 

Geralt immediately cast an Axii at the werelion, but it simply shook its head back and forth as if shaking water from its face, and then it let out a ferocious roar. The Sign obviously had no effect on the beast.

“Swell,” he replied, gripping his sword tightly with both hands. 

“Nikolai, please, don’t. It’s me, Gretel. We love you,” pleaded the young woman from just beside Geralt. 

The beast turned its head towards Gretel and stared at her for just a moment – a moment in which Geralt thought, with the smallest seed of hope, that maybe she had actually gotten through to him. But, then, the monster roared again and leapt forward with jaws open and claws extended. Gretel screamed, and the witcher swung his sword with all his might.

oOo

Just before sunrise, storm clouds rolled in, and torrential rain poured down into the Kaer Morhen castle, splattering off the rubble and washing away the copious amount of blood that covered the stone floor. Over half of the front and west walls had fallen during the battle, and much of the ceiling over the great hall had collapsed as well. To the witcher’s eyes, the castle now resemebled the ruins of an old elven palace. Geralt scanned his surroundings and saw that the Wolf-School guild’s library was completely destroyed. All of the valuable tomes were either buried under mounds of rock or soaked wet from the rain. 

The witcher slowly walked through the carnage, hand-in-hand with Evie. The shock of killing a man had finally worn off after Geralt had held her and consoled her for a long while, but the tears still rolled down her cheeks. Though, now they were indistinguishable from the heavy drops of rain that plastered her hair to her head and trickled downward, soaking her blouse. They walked along inspecting the bodies strewn about – ignoring, for the time being, those of the enemy while looking for those of their friends. As they moved over towards the bookcases, Evie suddenly stopped, her hand coming up to her mouth. 

“Oh, no…Geralt, no,” she whispered.

The witcher didn’t say anything. Evie rushed forward and knelt by the body, but he just let go of her hand and simply stood where he was. As he looked at the scene before him, he sighed deeply and slightly shook his head. Eventually, he approached and stared down at Isaac’s tiny body, the boy’s chest clearly showing evidence that he’d been on the receiving end of a lethal, magical spell. With his clothes drenched by the rain, he somehow looked even smaller and more helpless than he normally did. Then, he heard his wife crying so he knelt down next to her and pulled her into a hug.

“This is all my fault,” she said through sobs that were wracking her body. “He’s dead because of me.”

Geralt didn’t say anything. He just held her tightly as she cried. He didn’t agree with her statement. Clearly, all of this was the fault of Philippa Eilhart, but he knew that, at that point, simply holding her was the best thing he could do. They could argue later, after she wasn’t so overcome by emotion, about who held the blame. One thing was sure, though. Philippa Eilhart had just replaced Emhyr var Emreis as the person that Geralt wanted to end the most. And the witcher made a promise to himself, then and there. When this was all sorted out, if the sorceress was still alive, then he was going to find her, and justice would be done. 

  
  
oOo

_Vizima, Temeria_

Under the cover of darkness, Emperor Emhyr watched as hundreds of men loaded fifteen enormous, wooden boxes into wagons. Given the weight and size of the boxes, it took his men all night to complete the job. Emhyr sat atop his favorite steed, a dark black Nilfgaardian gelding. He was no longer in ceremonial dress but, rather, wore his military uniform, including a sword on his hip. As the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, he looked about. In addition to the loaded-down wagons, several companies of his men – both cavalry and infantry – were awaiting his orders. He looked at the Vizima palace, his home for the last two years, and he knew, one way or the other, he’d probably never see it again. He would either push forward or be repelled back, but he was no longer going to remain stationary. He gave the order, and the military cavalcade began moving west.


	21. Chapter 21

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 9

_Kaer Morhen_

“That’s a lot of bombs,” Evie commented. 

She was standing in the doorway of the downstairs lab, and her red-rimmed eyes were proof that she’d been recently crying. It had been a hard day for everyone, including her. Of the nine orphans who had arrived at Kaer Morhen, five had died during the battle and another, eleven-year-old Mabel, had been infected by Nikolai’s blood and was currently in her werelion form in a locked room upstairs with a battered and bruised Rien. And except for Evie and Lydial, everyone else had suffered some type of injury. Barcain had been injured perhaps the worst and was recuperating from a broken leg as a result of chunks of stone falling down on top of him. Even with Geralt potions and Benny’s healing magic, it’d probably be at least two or three days before he could ride again. 

“Uh huh,” the witcher said with a nod. “I’m not going to be caught unprepared again.”

“Are you blaming yourself for what happened?”

“Logically…no. I know that their blood is on Eilhart’s hands, but…I still feel guilty. Like I…should have known it was going to happen, or…could have done something differently.”

Evie nodded. “Yeah, me, too. All I can think is that this is all my fault. If I had never taken the tome from Emhyr, they never would have died.”  
  
Geralt got up from where he was crafting his explosives and walked over to where Evie was standing. He held her hand and slowly nodded his head.

“You taking the tome is only one tiny piece of the jigsaw puzzle that was today’s events. But you had no way of knowing what would happen here when you took it. All you knew was that if Emhyr got his hands on this weapon, then thousands – maybe tens of thousands - of lives would be lost. So… in my opinion, you made the best decision at the time with the knowledge that you had at the time. The lessons we learn today can affect our future decisions. But they can’t change our past ones. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Evie nodded her head.

“And, anyway, it can’t be all your fault because I can make the same argument. If I had never offered Kaer Morhen as a place for Rien and the kids to stay, then they’d still be alive, too. Or if I had chosen to kill Thacker and his men that first night right there in Lydial’s room, or if I’d never taken us down into Ban Ard in the first place. Everyone one of us can torture ourselves with the ‘if game’ until we’re filled with nothing but regret.”

Evie nodded. “I know what you’re saying is true…but, then why do we both feel so guilty?”

“Probably because we’re the adults, and they were just kids. We were supposed to be responsible for them.”

“Yeah…I was…” and then tears came to her eyes. “I was starting to already think of Isaac as ours.”

The witcher pulled his wife into a hug. 

She sniffed a couple of times before saying, “But it’s not just the two of us. I know that all the rest feel guilty, too.”

Geralt nodded. “Well, we all may feel guilty, but that doesn’t mean we are. Eilhart’s day will come. It’s got to…eventually. If there’s any justice in this world at all.” 

oOo

Several hours later, the witcher finished crafting his bombs and ascended the stairs to the first floor. He stopped when he unexpectedly heard the sound of a voice. No one should have been down in the main hall. Due to the damage from the battle, the survivors were all sleeping in the second-floor bedroom located in the tower, which fortunately still seemed to be structurally sound. 

As he walked quietly around some stacked boxes and towards the voice, he heard it say, “I praise you, Essea. You heal the brokenhearted and bind up our wounds. You are…”

Geralt took a final step forward and saw Lydial in the flickering shadows of the burning fireplace. She was on her knees, with head bowed, and resting her forearms on a bench in front of her. He stared at her a moment longer, finally shook his head, and turned away, not wanting to eavesdrop any longer on her prayer. But she’d heard him behind her.

“Geralt?” she asked.

“Yeah…it’s me,” he answered, stepping out of the shadows. “Sorry I disturbed you.”

“Oh, you didn’t. I couldn’t sleep so I’ve been down here for a while. How are you holding up?”

He nodded his head. “I’m okay.” And then he sighed. “I just…I hurt for Evie. She’s taking everyone’s death – especially Isaac’s - pretty hard. I don’t really know what to do for her except just hold her and listen.”

Lydial smiled. “That’s probably the best thing you could do for her. Well, that, and pray for her.” After a pause, she asked, “Would you like to pray together?” 

He shook his head. “No…not particularly. No offense, it’s not you. It’s just…” He shook his head again, not finishing his thought.

“What is it, Geralt?”

He sighed and then walked over and sat on the bench near her. 

“Today – at the funerals – and just now, I heard you praising Essea. I’ll be honest, Lydial - I don’t understand how you can praise him in a time like this. I mean – he’s supposed to be this all-good, all-powerful God, right?”

“Yes. He is.” 

“Then, how could he let what happened today take place? Five kids – who did no one any wrong - are dead. A little girl has been turned into a werelion. How can a good, loving God allow that to happen? I’m starting to think he’s either not all-loving or not all-powerful. One of the two.”

Lydial nodded her head, sadness on her face. “I understand.”

“Do you?” the witcher said with furrowed brows. “Because I sure as hell don’t.”

She smiled sadly, and then, she asked, “Has Evangeline told you of her biological grandfather?”

The witcher shook his head. “No.”

“Then, may I?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“Dilis and I married when we were just teenagers…and, oh, how we loved each other.” Lydial paused and smiled at the thought. “And, throughout our marriage, we longed for the day when I could finally conceive. We knew that we’d have to wait twenty-five or thirty years, but we figured that would just make having children all the more wonderful. 

“When we were in our forties, we were living down in the Dol Blathanna valley. And, we – the Aen Seidhe – were facing a lot of persecution at the time. Which I guess is redundant to say, huh? When have we not, right?”

Geralt nodded his head but didn’t say anything.

“Humans came into the valley, and at first, things were mostly peaceful. But, when we refused to move or sell our land to them, they just starting using force. Raiding our towns, burning our homes. The typical. The leaders of our community eventually had enough and decided to be more proactive, to take the fight to them. Dilis was always great with a bow so he went out with the others. They were only supposed to be gone for a few weeks. While he and the others were away, men came into our small town…those of us that they didn’t kill, they beat and raped. Dilis didn’t come back for several months, by which time I knew I was pregnant. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t even known I was capable of conceiving.”

Lydial paused for a moment. Geralt could see from her eyes that she was lost in thought.

“You know, I can’t even really remember what that man looks like now. It’s been so long. I just remember, at the time, thinking that he looked so young,” she said, shaking her head.

“Anyway, afterwards, I was distraught…and angry. I can remember screaming at Essea. Demanding to know why he’d let this happen to me - one of his most faithful followers. If he’s all-powerful, then he could have easily stopped that from ever happening. So, why didn’t he? Did he not care for me? As you asked, why would a loving God let this happen?

“And my fellow Aen Seidhe certainly didn’t help matters. They considered my baby to be a mongrel mutt. Almost all of them urged me to I abort it. A few even offered me special potions that would do the job. And, then, on top of all that, I was terrified of how Dilis would respond when he returned…if he returned. At that point, as far as I knew, he was dead, which made me question how I was going to raise this ‘half-breed’ on my own. Every day…every night, I screamed, cried, begged to Essea…to fix this somehow. I even considered, briefly, aborting the baby. But I knew I couldn’t. I knew how much Essea values life. And how could I end the life of this baby growing inside of me? It wasn’t her fault that this happened. She was just as much a victim as I was. How was killing her fair to her? Despite my initial anger with God, I never stopped talking to him, and, eventually, I began asking him to simply to cover us with his blessings. 

“So, I decided to keep her, and I found out quickly who my real friends were. Only my fellow Esseans were supportive. The rest of the community looked down on me for wanting to bring a mutt into the world. And, then one day, Dilis showed back up at our door, and I just broke down at the sight of him. I can remember just bawling in his arms – both out of relief and fear. How was he going to take this news? Would he hate me? Would he leave me? Would he despise the baby?

“And here is the most amazing thing, Geralt. He told me that, several weeks before, he’d started having dreams…dreams of me holding a baby…and a voice in his dreams telling him to take her as his own. He said that, at first, he had no idea what the dreams were about. But, after seeing me, he understood. I remember crying uncontrollably…so overwhelmed that he wasn’t going to leave me…so overwhelmed that Essea would speak to him that way. Because I am convinced, to this day, that those dreams were the work of Essea. There is simply no other way to explain them.

“About a year later, I gave birth to a beautiful girl, Hannamiel, Evangeline’s mother. And I’ll admit that she had a rough childhood. She was ostracized a lot because of her mixed blood, but we loved her so much. Dilis treated her as if she truly was his. And we considered her a blessing, despite the horrific, unspeakable act that had caused it all. And she became even more of a blessing as the years passed since, no matter how much we tried, I couldn’t get pregnant again. And through her, I have three precious grandchildren that I love, and now I have you…my wonderful grandson-in-law.” 

With that, she smiled and a tear rolled down her cheek. 

“And I praise Essea for all of that,” she said as she patted the witcher on his knee.

Geralt didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say. 

“Geralt, can I tell you what Essea taught me through that experience?”

He nodded his head “Please…do.”

“I’ve come to see life as an enormous painting. A painting so large that it covers an entire wall of this castle, and I’m standing so close to it that my nose is touching it…so I can only make out one tiny part of the painting. The part right in front of me, and even that is blurry. But Essea…he sees the entire thing. And he doesn’t just see it, he’s the one that painted it. So, I can’t see how all the different sections of the painting fit together. I can’t see what’s coming up tomorrow or ten years from now, but he does. And when I don’t understand…that’s when trust most comes into play. 

“He has showed me that he is not only all-good and all-powerful but that he is also all-wise. That his plans are too great for me to truly understand. In fact, it gives me peace to know that I worship a God whose ways are too intricate for me to fully comprehend. I wouldn’t want a god that was no smarter than me. That’s not a comforting thought. 

“And because I trust him – trust that he is the all-wise, holy, just, loving, sovereign God - then I can praise him…even in heart-breaking circumstances…like today. I can praise him even when I don’t understand his plans. Trust me, Geralt – Essea works in and through the darkest storms of life. I’ve seen him do it, and his tomes tell of him doing it.” 

“That’s why you have so much peace.” It was a statement not a question.

She nodded. “Because of his promises found in his scriptures, I believe that when I die, he will take me home to be with him…forever. And that means that this world is as close to hell as I’ll ever come. So…no matter how painful this life is or how cruel this world treats me, I know it won’t last forever. And once you settle the issue of death, what else is there really to worry about? What’s the worst that man can do to us – kill us? Okay. That just means I get to go live in the presence of Essea.” 

Geralt was simply staring at Lydial, taking in everything she was saying, when he suddenly heard something coming from the direction of the tower and looked up. A few seconds later, his wife came into view. 

“Geralt?” Evie asked.

He got up and went to her. 

“Yeah. I’m here. Is something wrong?”

“No. I just woke up and you were still gone. I thought I’d come sit with you in the lab.”

“Well, I’m all done down there. I was just visiting with Lydial.”

“Oh…okay. Do you want me to leave you two alone?”

“No, baby, I want to be with you. Let’s go to bed.” He then turned back. “Goodnight, Lydial…and thanks.”

She smiled. “Anytime, Geralt.”

A few minutes later, they walked into their bedroom on the third floor of the tower and moved over to the bed. The witcher hadn’t been in there since the battle had begun almost twenty-four hours earlier. He looked at the bedside table and noticed that his copy of the Essean tome was missing. He then looked to her side of the bed but didn’t see it there either. 

“Evie, did you already pack up my Essean journal?”

She looked at the witcher and shook her head. “No. I haven’t seen it since yesterday. I thought that you had it.” Then, her eyes went wide. “Do you not have it?”

He stared into Evie’s eyes and simply shook his head, his jaws clenched in anger. 

oOo

“It’s still dark, Geralt. I thought we were leaving at sun-up,” said a yawning Benny. 

“Change of plans. We think Philippa took my copy of the tome when she was here…so we need to move with a bit more haste,” replied the witcher.

“Damn…that means she knows where the Sword…rod…whatever is?” asked the mage as he got to his feet and starting looking for his trousers. 

“Evie says no. Tome doesn’t specifically indicate where it’s located. If it did, we’d have gone straight there. Evie says that it just gives clues. She, honestly, isn’t that concerned that Philippa has the book. Says the only way Philippa will find the Sword before we do is if she is a better historian than Evie. Evie’s less worried and more pissed off…since it was her wedding present to me,” Geralt finished with a smile. “But I’d feel better if we left now. I know Philippa. She’s a resourceful witch, and I’d never underestimate her.”

Benny nodded. “Yeah, after the display she put on yesterday, me neither,” he replied, putting on his boots.

There was a moment of silence as the sorcerer continued to dress.

“Hey…Benny?”   
  
“Yeah?” Benny asked, looking up from lacing his boots.

“I never thanked you yesterday…for sacrificing yourself for my wife. She told me that you jumped in front of Philippa’s spell.”

“Ah,” said Benny waving his hand. “It was just a stunning spell.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t know that at the time, did you?”

The mage looked at the witcher for a moment before shaking his head. 

“Exactly. So…thank you, Benny. I owe you,” said Geralt, reaching his hand forward.

“Hey…that’s what friends do,” replied the sorcerer, shaking his hand.

oOo

_Daevon, Kaedwen_

Fringilla Vigo had been renting a room at the Twisted Root Inn for five days, by which time she had started to hate not only the run-down tavern but also the dirty, depressing town and every uncouth bumpkin in it. She honestly didn’t know why the insignificant, little town even existed. Why had it ever been formed in the first place? The thought of calling down hail and fire on the entire gods-forsaken area brought a smile to her face. It didn’t help her mood than she was not wearing her typical attire. Every time she caught sight of herself in a reflective surface, she involuntarily made a face. She thought she looked like a farmer’s wife. Of course, that’s what she was intending, given that she was in Radovid-controlled territory. She knew her usual ensemble screamed, “Witch!” Regardless, the Nilfgaardian sorceress had a very sour disposition. Oh, the hardships she was willing to go through for her country, she thought seriously to herself. 

As the sorceress spent hour after hour on the inn’s front porch looking down the road towards the south, she alternated between being frustrated, angry, and concerned – but mostly angry. Malek and his men were at least three or four days behind schedule. Why hadn’t he used the megascope to contact her – to let her know of his location or, at least, of his new arrival time? After day two of her wait, she “borrowed” a horse and started riding southwest out of Daevon, hoping to perhaps come upon them somewhere on the road. A half a day’s ride later, she came to the pass in the Kestral Mountains. She, obviously, noticed the rock slide, but she also noticed a few arrows and crossbow bolts embedded here and there in the soil. She dismounted her horse, teleported higher into the mountains, and investigated the scene. She found no bodies, but she did notice dried blood splattered about on the rocks and soil. 

She returned to the Twisted Root, not knowing exactly what else to do. She had no way of finding Malek or knowing what had happened to him. And that’s when, much to her surprise, her anger seemed to turn to concern. Why would she be feeling a sense of anxiety, she thought to herself. Was she truly concerned with Malek’s safety and well-being? She was confused by that possibility, for she had sworn years ago never to let her feelings for a man interfere with the greater plan. Her time with Geralt of Rivia in Toussaint had taught her that lesson. If anything, she should welcome Malek’s death, knowing that it would greatly hinder Emhyr’s plan to find – well, to find whatever he was searching for. But for some reason, the thought of Malek lying dead put a frown on her face. 

Choosing not to contemplate the matter any longer, the Nilfgaardian sorceress decided that she’d give Malek one more day. After that, she’d teleport back to Vizima and see if she could discover anything new there. And it was at that point that she saw a group of men riding hard from the south with a cloud of dust trailing behind them. Moments later, she recognized the riders heading in her direction so she walked out into the middle of the road. Within a minute, Malek and his men halted their horses, the dust cloud blowing forward past them and into Fringilla. Seeing the sorceress standing before him, he nodded his head. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“I promised to help you. So, here I am,” she replied with a smile. 

“Then, grab a horse. We’re going to Kaer Morhen.”

Fringilla was conflicted. A part of her was pleased to see Malek was alive, but another was disturbed that he seemed to have a lead on his task. Not knowing exactly how she felt, she simply kept the smile on her face. 

“You all – and your horses – look completely exhausted. At least, stop here for a bit to eat and give your horses a rest. It doesn’t look like much, but the inn offers some delicious stew,” she lied. 

Malek looked around at his men and their mounts and sighed. He finally nodded his head and said, “One hour…and then we ride again.”

oOo

_Tretogor, Redania_

“Roche, you won’t believe it,” said Ves, entering the Temerian’s command center located in a cave in the hills.

Roche sighed. There was no telling what was going to come out of his lieutenant’s mouth. 

“What now?”

“Another platoon of Redanians left the palace in a very big hurry.”

“Toward Kaedwen again?”

“No, heading due north.”

When Roche didn’t immediately say anything, she asked, “Think it’s got anything to do with Geralt and that Nilfgaardian historian again?”

“I don’t know, but this time, I’m going, as well,” he answered, while grabbing his gear. “Let’s gather some men.”

oOo

_The Pontar River_

Private Kilmer, an infantry man of the Redanian army, was yawning in his covered foxhole. He had been standing watch in what he considered to be the worst part of day – the three to six am shift. He was a member of the Third Infantry Division, known affectionately as the Bulldogs, and they had been tasked with defending the Pontar River from just east of Oxenfurt all the way to just west of Rinde. In the last year, Kilmer and his fellow soldiers – over three thousand strong – had fought countless skirmishes with the Nilfgaardians for this territory. It was vital that Redania hold this particular area of its border, for just a day’s ride north was Tretogor, the capital and current residence of King Radovid. Truth be told, though, Kilmer considered himself more of a spectator than an actual combatant. He and his fellow brothers of the infantry had done virtually no fighting since Redania’s superior long-range weapons of destruction had kept the Black Ones from ever reaching, much less crossing, the river itself. Therefore, Kilmer just did a lot of watching – and he was just fine with that. 

As the sun came up and shed light on the country side below, Kilmer, at first, didn’t even notice anything out of the ordinary. After six or seven months, he’d gotten used to simply seeing the same thing every day – specifically, the Black Ones encamped far away on a hilltop, just out of range of the Redanians’ ballistae, catapults, and trebuchets. But, suddenly, he did a double-take. This morning, the hilltops and meadows on the southern side of the river were free of the enemy for as far as his eyes could see. He shook his head in bewilderment as he realized that sometime during the night, the entire Nilfgaardian division had quietly retreated. 

He turned and kicked his foxhole buddy in the foot.

“Wake up, Smitty!”

“Wassa…uh,” his comrade mumbled.

“Get up! We’ve got to tell Captain Theissman about this.”

oOo

_Gors Velen_

Emperor Emhyr var Emreis stood on the docks and watched with a critical eye as the fifteen, heavy crates were loaded carefully on the decks of the largest ships in his fleet. Countless, enormous black sails emblazed with a golden sun filled his vision as he looked into the harbor and beyond – into the Great Sea. As he watched several thousand of his troops board his sea-going vessels, he nodded his head slowly to himself, pleased that, so far, his final plan was proceeding as expected. He reached both hands into the pockets of his trousers, each hand caressing a metallic disc – smooth on one side and grooved on the other. Just the touch of the objects on his fingers fortified his resolve. He nodded his head again, telling himself that he had no other option – not if he wanted to retain his throne, and certainly not if he wanted to cement his legacy. For he knew, better than any, that his eventual legacy and reputation would be far more influenced by how he ended his reign than by how he had started it. No one cared how or where you started - only in how you finished, and he refused to go out whimpering, ineffectual, and impotent. 

oOo

_Kestral Mountains_

“But I thought the word for ‘follow’ was ‘aecaemm?’” asked Geralt, looking down at the Essean tome and then at Evie. 

“It is, Geralt. But, again, the Elder Speech that you know and that the Aen Seidhe currently use is slightly different.”

Geralt and Evie were riding on the front bench of the covered wagon – Evie with the reins in her hands and the book in Geralt’s. Lydial was in the back with the supplies while Benny and Barcain were bringing up the rear on their respective horses. Roach, with her reins tied to the back of the wagon, was following along and would, to Lydial’s amusement, occasionally poke her head through the split-canvas flap that covered the back opening to eyeball Lydial. She knew that, more than likely, the horse was just looking for food. 

They’d departed Kaer Morhen three days ago, and earlier that morning, they’d traveled around the city of Leyda and headed west through the Kestral Mountains, towards Redania. They had already reached the summit of the eastern ridge of the mountain chain, but before they could crest the other, they’d first have to descend into a narrow valley – a valley in which almost the entire width was covered by the deep, rushing waters of the Nimnar River. 

The witcher exhaled with frustration. 

“Damn it. I’m never going to get this,” he said, shaking his head. “Why was learning languages so much easier when I was a kid?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you had a better teacher?” she teased. 

The witcher made a face. “Hardly. Old Kalen - he was a nasty piece of work.” 

“I thought Vesemir was your instructor?” asked Evie.

Geralt shook his head. “Just with weapons, mostly. That was his specialty. But I had other teachers for the other disciplines – alchemy, Signs, explosives, physical training, book learning, so forth. Though, there was a lot of cross-training that went on.”

“Were you ever an instructor?”

“No…I mean, with other than Ciri, no.”

“Why not? I thought you were the best – the famous White Wolf. I’d think you’d be a great teacher,” she said with a smile.  
  
Geralt smirked at his wife. “Well, even if that were true – that I was the best – that doesn’t necessarily mean I’d be a good teacher. There are a lot of people who are good at what they do, who can’t teach worth a damn.”

“That’s true,” she said nodding her head. “So, you didn’t teach because you were lousy at it?” she asked, still smiling.

“No, Professor…because there wasn’t anyone to teach.”

“What? Why?”  
  
“Typically, witchers come in from the Path during the winter months, when monsters hibernate. But, one year, I was late returning to Kaer Morhen. I got caught down in the southern part of the Continent with a long run of good luck. Seemed like every town I came to had an open contract. Winter was approaching and I tried heading north, but like I said, I was getting stopped in every town. So, I actually stayed in the south that winter…during which a pogrom occurred at Kaer Morhen. Killed almost every witcher there, even the kids. Also killed Festus, the sorcerer that was there that helped with the Trial of Grasses.” Geralt paused for a moment, shaking his head. “The lynch mob must have been enormous to take down a bunch of trained witchers and a mage. I honestly don’t know how they even knew how to find our keep in the first place. But, regardless, they burned a lot of tomes…did their best to wreck the place. When I finally returned a year later, there was only a handful of us left. Vesemir had repaired the place best he could. Found copies of old bestiaries and texts to partially restore our library. But the specifics on how to create witchers were lost forever. Vesemir was the only instructor left alive…and he only knew the rudimentary steps, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway since our sorcerer was dead. So…” Great shrugged. “I simply never had anyone to teach…until Ciri came along…and then Isaac.”

Evie was quiet for a while. “Damn it, Geralt,” she said sadly.

“What is it?”

“Do you have any happy stories or memories?” 

It hurt Evie to know that her husband’s psyche and soul were as scarred as his body. 

He was silent for a moment and then slowly shook his head. 

“I’ve got to have a few, right?” he asked rhetorically. “But even the happy ones – of Ciri, Vesemir…others – are all tinged with sadness.” 

At that point, he looked off into the mountains, lost in his thoughts. 

“I’ve had too many goodbyes in my life,” he eventually said. “I’ll be honest – I’m getting tired of them.” 

He then smiled wistfully and looked at Evie. 

“You know, to me, that’s what heaven would be…the place where you never have to say goodbye.”

She nodded her head and then leaned into Geralt, hugging his arm. 

“Well, husband, I’m never telling you goodbye. Okay?” And then she hugged him tighter.

“Sounds like heaven to me,” he said, looking down at woman next to him. “I don’t think I’ve told you today…that I love you.”

“I love you, too, Geralt.”

oOo

_Kaer Morhen, Kaedwen_

“Good morning,” greeted Malek in a friendly tone and wearing his most charming smile. 

Rien, Gretel, and the remaining, non-infected orphans – Lukas, Tressa, and nine-year-old Erasmus – had been sitting and eating breakfast at a table near the large fireplace inside the partially-standing castle, but they had all risen to their feet upon hearing approaching footsteps.

Malek and his men had entered Kaer Morhen’s grounds earlier that morning and had spent several hours spying on the castle. Given the absence of walls and a ceiling it wasn’t difficult for his men placed in various positions to get a clear view inside. To his disappointment, it appeared that his niece was no longer on the premises. 

“Good…good morning,” stammered Gretel, looking nervously at both the giant of a man and the men spread out on either side of him. “Would…you and your men like some breakfast?” 

Malek genuinely smiled. “No, thank you, Miss, but I do appreciate your hospitality.”

He paused and looked at the five youth in front of him, the four eldest looking at him with suspicious eyes. He made a quick decision on how he was going to play this situation, knowing that the best lies were the ones that were composed of ninety percent truth. 

“I’m not going to insult your intelligence. We are not lost nor here by accident. I am looking for someone who is very important to me. I believe she was here. Her name is Evangeline.”

“You mean, Evie?” asked Erasmus. 

Immediately, Tressa hissed in a low tone, “Erasmus.” When he looked up at his sister, she was glaring at him.

Malek’s eyes turned to the young boy. 

“Yes, she sometimes goes by Evie. So…clearly she was here.” 

Malek then continued speaking, but he paused and peered closely at each one as he spoke. 

“She has gotten herself into a bit of a predicament, and I’d like to help her out of it.”

When no one responded, Malek continued. 

“So, do any of you know where she was headed?” 

Still, no one answered. 

“What about you, little man? Do you know where Evie was going next?”

Tressa grabbed Erasmus by the shirt and pulled him closer. He looked up at his sister and then back at Malek. He shook his head vigorously.

The smile on Malek’s face vanished. He breathed in very deeply, very slowly, and then exhaled the same. 

“I was afraid that would be your answer.”

He turned his head slightly to his left but never took his eyes off of the five in front of him, especially on Rien. Years of experience told Malek that he was the most dangerous of the bunch.

“The blonde,” he stated simply. At which point, his men moved forward, two of them grabbing Tressa and the rest drawing weapons against Rien, Lukas, Gretel and Erasmus. Malek waited patiently until all the yelling and screaming finally ceased, and once there was quiet, he spoke again in a very calm voice.

“I was hoping that at least one of you would see reason. But, alas…”

He then looked into their eyes. 

“Believe me, I take no pleasure in this. I would have preferred that you simply tell me where she went and then we could be on our way. But know this – Evie holds the key to something incredibly valuable. It is more valuable than your lives…even more valuable than mine. It is more valuable than any person’s life who is walking this planet. Therefore, I am willing to kill you to get it…to make sure that it does not fall into the wrong hands. Understood?”

His eyes rested on those of Erasmus. 

“So, I will ask one more time. Does anyone know where she went?”

When no one answered, he looked at the two men holding Tressa. 

“Hold her against that column,” he ordered. 

Fringilla Vigo watched the two men drag the screaming Tressa over to one of the few still-standing columns within the castle and, with one man on each arm, pulled her back tightly against it. During this entire sequence, the sorceress had stood back, watching and listening, but not saying a word. She was incredibly conflicted but her face remained of mask of stoicism. She was confident that she could brew up a special elixir that would act as a truth serum. Give her an hour, and she’d have the five giving up all their secrets. However, she clearly wasn’t going to help Malek succeed on the Emperor’s mission. That said, she also didn’t particularly want to see an innocent girl die, either. 

The emotion that she was feeling the most, though, was surprise. She was surprised that Malek would do this. She thought him to be a man of certain principles. She shook her head slightly, realizing, once again, that while she was a highly-skilled sorceress, she was horrible at reading people, and she chastised herself for being so foolish. Malek had been Emhyr’s right hand for decades. He wouldn’t have attained, much less held, that position for so long if he wasn’t as ruthless as the Emperor himself. 

Malek then turned to the man next to him and grabbed his crossbow. 

Gretel yelled, “We don’t know! We don’t know! They didn’t tell us where they were going!”

Malek peered at her and sighed. “We shall see shortly if you’re telling the truth.” 

And then he brought the crossbow up to his shoulder, aiming the weapon at Tressa. He looked at her four friends one last time, and then turned his eyes back to his target.

“Rien.” 

The name was spoken softly, but everyone heard it and looked at Tressa. She was no longer struggling against her captors and was staring directly at the long-haired young man.

“Avenge me,” she said, barely above a whisper. 

She then turned her calm eyes towards Malek’s. 

“I don’t want to have to avenge you,” Rien said looking at Tressa. He then, too, looked at Malek. “Please don’t kill her. I’ll tell you what I know. They didn’t tell us where they were heading, but…I overhead them talking one day. I think I know where they were going.”

Malek did not lower his weapon, but he did speak.

“Know this – I have a general idea of where they are headed, just not the specifics. Therefore, if you choose to lie to me…if you choose to tell me that they are heading to the Skellige Islands or to Povis or any other nonsensical location, then I will know it’s a lie and I will kill this girl.”

“They were going to Novigrad,” replied Rien in a defeated voice. 

“For what purpose?” asked Malek.  
  
“I don’t know exactly. I just heard her say that she needed to ask some guy a few questions regarding a book.”

Malek didn’t say anything for several long seconds, his finger still on the crossbow’s trigger. 

Finally, he stated, “You have chosen wisely, for which I am grateful.” And he lowered the crossbow.

Five minutes later, Malek, Fringilla and the rest walked out of what was left of the Kaer Morhen castle.

“Would you really have killed her, Malek?” Fringilla asked as they descended some steps.

Malek turned to face the sorceress but kept walking. 

“I’m surprised you’d ask that. I thought you knew me well by now,” he answered neutrally. 

Before she could respond, he asked, “So…Novigrad…coming with us?”

“Ugh…I’d really like to just teleport there, but I’m afraid I’d never see you again. You clearly don’t know how to arrive on schedule,” she replied, thinking of her unbearable, five-day wait in Daevon. 

“Yes, my apologies for that,” he said. “It seems that, no matter how much I plan, life unfortunately still requires much improvisation and flexibility. But, cheer up…in this case, I am going to acquiesce to your desires. A portal would be best.”

Though her face didn’t betray it, Fringilla was surprised. She didn’t say anything, but she did turn to look at Malek.

“They apparently have a three’s day head start,” Malek explained. “I’d like to be waiting for them when they get there.”

Once the group had reached their mounts, Malek turned to the rest. 

“Miss Vigo will open a portal to Novigrad, which Timataal, Delkith, and I will be using. The rest of you will ride there as quickly as possible. It should take you around five days. Our rendezvous will be the Seven Cats Inn east of the city. If we are not there when you arrive, just wait. One of us will check for your arrival at three o’clock each afternoon.”

They all discussed the plan in detail for a few more minutes, and once Malek had answered all questions, he turned to Fringilla.

“Miss Vigo, a portal, if you’d please.”

  
oOo

_Kestral Mountains_

Vatslav – the once proclaimed, “Arm-Wrestling King of the North” - wasn’t as old as Geralt, but he certainly looked older. His face – the color of deep mahogany and creased more deeply than a wrinkled napkin - was a testament to the fact that he had spent the entirety of his seventy plus years outdoors, weathering the effects of the sun and wind. When he was in his early twenties, he had built a small shack on an elevated piece of land just east of the bridge that crossed the Nimnar River, and that shack had served as both his residence and a general store for the last five decades. He provided most of his sustenance through hunting and fishing, but he’d barter and trade specialty goods – especially tobacco and whiskey - with all the folks that used that particular pass in the mountains while travelling to and from Redania and Kaedwen. 

Not long after he had established his home in the mountains, the dilapidated bridge that spanned the river finally fell due to heavy flooding from a particularly violent storm, with the majority of the bridge washing away downstream. But instead of viewing the incident as a disaster, the optimistic Vatslav looked to turn it into a profit. It had taken him months to do so, but he eventually used the timber from what was remaining of the bridge to build a large, flat-bottomed ferry, to which he affixed a rope – as thick as a man’s arm – that he securely tied off to both sides of the river. Since then, he’d charged a small toll to ferry travelers from one bank to the other, and over the decades, that enterprise had not only beefed up his coffers but also his muscles, allowing him to defeat virtually all challengers in arm-wrestling contests for about a thirty-year span. 

The day that he was finally vanquished – roughly fifteen years past – Vatslav had, with a knowing smile, heartily congratulated the victor, for he had always known the day of his defeat would eventually come. Just as he’d seen in the last fifty years the incessant wind and rain gradually erode and transform the rocky cliffs of the Kestral Mountains, he too had felt time taking its toll on his body. For time always won out. It had an undefeated record. That was a lesson that all mortal creatures eventually learned. The strong, straight backs of today’s youth were the curved, brittle spines of tomorrow. The shiny eyes, bright smiles and flawless complexion of today’s fair maidens were hidden in the wiry, silver hair, the spotted skin, and the stained teeth of tomorrow’s aged. Some faced that lesson with humility and a calm acceptance while others angrily railed against it. But regardless, it was a lesson everyone learned – the one group left with a tranquil peace afterwards and the latter left bitter and depressed. If anyone had asked Vatslav where he stood, a smile would have come to his mouth – a mouth both full of tobacco and empty of half its teeth – and he would have stated that he definitely fell in with the former group.

Vatslav, sitting in a rocking chair on the small, roofed porch of his hut, heard the sound of horses’ hooves and wagon wheels coming from the dirt trail to his right. Seconds later, he saw a single, covered wagon come into view, accompanied by two individual riders on horseback. He peered at the man and woman driving the wagon. The two mounted riders and the woman were complete strangers, but his eyes lingered on the man on the wagon’s seat, and he exhaled slowly. The man looked quite different from the last time Vatslav had seen him – shorter hair, scar somehow concealed, and swords missing from his back. But the man was clearly the Butcher of Blaviken. The witcher had used the pass countless times over the course of his life, and over the years, Vatslav and Geralt had formed a mutual respect – a respect grounded in the fact that they were both simple – yet not simplistic – men. More times than not, when the witcher would pass through, the two men would spend hours drinking, smoking, and playing cards together – many times in relative silence. 

As the wagon approached, Vatslav stood up from his chair, both his back and knees popping. He spat over the railing of the porch, his slimy, caramel-colored glob of saliva splattering on the ground below, and then he slowly walked down the two steps and out towards his latest customers. As he got close enough to confirm that the man was indeed the witcher, he tried to smile, but he knew it looked more like a grimace. For once, he wasn’t pleased to see the White Wolf.

“Hello, strangers!” he said, emphasizing the last word. 

Geralt hopped down from the wagon and shook the old man’s hand.

“Greetings, Vatslav,” he said with a nod. 

“Geralt, get on the ferry as fast as possible. You hear me?” he said in a whisper. 

The witcher didn’t bother to ask questions. He just nodded his head, jumped back onto the wagon, and snapped the reins. As they approached the river, Vatslav walked right next to the wagon and used its sound to disguise their conversation.

“What’s going on, Vatslav?” the witcher asked in a hushed tone, his eyes scanning the land on both sides of the trail.

“Redanian soldiers came through here earlier this morning. They stopped and asked if I’d recently seen a party of five – two women, three men - in a single covered wagon. That didn’t really get my attention. But, then…they specifically mentioned your name. What in the name of Lebioda’s saggy ball-sack have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“Redanians?” asked Geralt in surprise. “Are you sure?”

Vatslav didn’t even bother answering. He just looked at the witcher with a cocked eyebrow.

“Right.” 

“Geralt,” hissed Evie in a whisper. “What do the Redanians want with us? How do they even know where we are?”

Geralt shook his head but didn’t answer as he was now focused on getting the wagon onto the ferry. Once it was on, he quickly jumped off the seat and helped Vatslav make preparations for the trip across – untying a secondary line and raising the ramp. 

“How long ago were they here?” he asked Vatslav while pulling up the stabilizing anchor.

“Three or four hours ago.”

“And then they headed west?”

“No, east…towards Leyda.”

Upon hearing this, the witcher was confused. 

“That can’t be. We would’ve run into them. Unless…”

And, then, as the ferry was just pulling away from the bank, the White Wolf looked up to see a large group of Redanian soldiers walking slowly down the trail towards the river’s edge, each with a crossbow in hand. Vatslav continued to pull the large raft towards the western side, but Geralt didn’t help him. He just stared at the soldiers who were all lined up along the river bank. His muscles were tense, and he was prepared to immediately cast a Quen dome around them all if the soldiers suddenly decided to unleash their arrows.

“Geralt, if they were waiting for us, then why didn’t they confront us or attack us when they had the chance?” asked Benny.

Geralt just shook his slowly. 

“I don’t know.” 

And then a thought came to the witcher’s mind, and he quickly turned and walked to the other end of the ferry, the rest following him. Roughly a hundred feet away, on the western bank, he saw another cluster of Redanian soldiers slowly coming out of hiding and walking towards the river. They were also armed with crossbows. 

“Great. Thought so,” said Benny sarcastically.

Upon seeing this, Geralt called out, “Vatslav, stop pulling.”

The old man, with his head down, had been pulling on the rope with all his might. He looked up and saw that, now, both banks were full of Redanians.

As the river’s strong current pushed against the ferry, Geralt spoke up.

“Benny, you asked why they didn’t attack on the bank. If you were going to fight a witcher, then your best chance would be to take away his ability to use his sword and his superior physical skills, right?”

“Yeah.”  
  
“Well, look where they got me…us. In the middle of a river.” 

“So, what do they want?” asked Lydial.

Before anyone could answer, they all heard a voice from the bank.

“Witcher! Give us the historian! The rest of you can go on your way!”

“How the hell do they even know about me?” asked Evie with a panicked tone. 

“I don’t know,” he said looking into his wife’s eyes. “But they’re not getting their hands on you.”

“So, what are we going to do?” asked Barcain.

They all, instinctively, looked at the witcher, whose eyes were scanning his surroundings in every direction. As he looked downstream, he noticed that the river’s narrow banks quickly disappeared, with the water bordered on each side by sheer rock faces that reached a hundred-foot high. He nodded his head slowly a few times, and then walked over to Roach and unsheathed his steel sword. He turned and looked at the rest.

“It could be nasty downriver…I hope you all know how to swim.”


	22. Chapter 22

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 10

_Kestral Mountains_

“I’ll pay you back,” said Geralt – with sword in hand - looking over at Vatslav.

The old man spit into the river and looked back at the witcher with a smile.

“Cut it already. Let’s get this started.”

Geralt gave a quick nod of his head and then looked at the others. 

“Find cover. They might start shooting as soon as I cut the rope.”

After seeing his five traveling companions hunker down behind the thick ferry gate or under the wagon, he cast a Quen Sign and then sliced through the heavy rope with a single swing of his sword. Immediately, the two pieces fell slack and the strong current pushed the ferry south toward the narrowing river canyon. Sure enough, upon seeing the ferry floating away, the Redanian soldiers raised their crossbows. Geralt moved quickly to stand in front of the two horses that were hitched to the wagon and prepared to cast a Quen dome to protect them, but the barrage of bolts and arrows never came. He peered closely at the soldiers standing on the banks, and suddenly they all lowered their weapons. He hadn’t heard the order over the noise of the river, but he’d seen one soldier’s mouth move and assumed that he’d been the one to give the command. The White Wolf continued staring at the officer in charge until the current had taken the ferry out of the crossbows’ range. At which point, the Redanians all turned around and ran upward into the wooded mountains. 

“Why didn’t they shoot?” asked Evie.

The witcher shook his head. “Don’t know. Maybe they didn’t want to accidentally hit you.”

“Then, where are they going?”

“Don’t know that either, but if I had to guess…probably going to try and catch us somewhere down river.”

He then turned to Vatslav.

“Are there dangerous rapids ahead?”

The old man shrugged. “Wouldn’t call ‘em dangerous…though, I suppose the ferry might break up if we crash into the rocks hard enough. I’d recommend that you unharness the horses from the wagon just in case.”

Geralt nodded and then looked at Lydial and Evie. “You two handle that.”

He then went to his saddle bags and grabbed as much rope as he could find. He turned to Benny and Barcain and tossed it to them.

“Tie each wagon wheel off to the ferry’s railing. I want to stabilize it as much as possible before we go through any rapids. Cut the rope into pieces if you have to.” 

As everyone went about completing the tasks at hand, Geralt looked up and around him. The cliffs towered overhead at least a hundred feet high on both sides of the river. While not quite vertical, the escarpments were still very steep and rocky. Thus, the witcher didn’t think it would be possible for any of the Redanians to ambush them from above. He saw that there was no bank on either side of the river either. Therefore, if the enemy was going to pursue them, then they’d have to do so along the cliff tops. 

“We’ve got company!” shouted Benny, bringing Geralt out of his thoughts. 

The witcher looked over at the sorcerer, who was pointing back up river. Sitting or kneeling in a wide, flat-bottomed raft just thirty feet away were a half-dozen Redanians – two of which had oars in hand and were paddling hard while the other four had crossbows drawn. The smaller raft was gaining fast. 

“Everybody take cover!” yelled Barcain, who immediately moved to the down-river side of the wagon. 

Geralt, without any cover to hide behind, simply cast a Quen Sign and then crouched down to minimize the chance of being hit. Suddenly, several crossbow bolts either whistled through the air as they passed by or produced a heavy “thunking” noise as they imbedded in the wood of the wagon or ferry. The noise produced by the projectiles agitated all the horses, causing them to emit shrill, fearful cries.

Still crouching down, the witcher reached up to his bandolier and grabbed a Grapeshot bomb. He was about to toss it towards the middle of the approaching raft when he realized that a second, floating craft could come in handy. He let go of the shrapnel-producing explosive and grasped hold of a Devil’s Puffball instead. As he stood, the enemy shot another volley of bolts, two of which impacted his Quen shield, producing a small explosion of orange sparks and a banging noise, like two pans smacking together. While no longer active, the shield had served its purpose, and the witcher, ignoring the noise from the frightened horses behind him, stood unharmed and tossed the poison-gas bomb at the smaller vessel. It detonated on impact, and almost immediately, the soldiers on board began gasping for air, clutching at their throats. They all quickly dove over the sides and into the river. Geralt watched dispassionately as the soldiers – their nervous systems impaired by the poison – splashed and floundered in the water. Even without the effects of the poisonous gas, given that they were wearing thick armor, it would have been difficult for any of them to stay afloat. However, there was one soldier who seemed to be making a hearty attempt. Whenever his head would break the surface of the water, Geralt could see that his eyes were wide with panic and focused on the ferry. The witcher suddenly had an idea, picked up a long line of rope at his feet, and tossed it at the frantic man. The Redanian swiped at the life-line and just as his hand grasped it tightly, a crossbow bolt suddenly plunged into his eye and he quickly submerged out of sight. The witcher turned to his left to see Barcain holding an empty crossbow. 

“What the hell, Barcain? I was going to question him. Couldn’t you see I was trying to save him?”

The ex-Nilfgaardian soldier looked back at Geralt and shrugged. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know that’s what you were trying to do,” he replied before turning away. 

The witcher stared hard at Barcain as he walked back to the other side of the ferry. He shook his head several times and then pulled the loose rope into his hand. He tied off one end to the railing and then dove into the river and swam towards the raft. It was only the witcher’s incredible strength that kept him from drowning under the weight of his armor and weapons. Once aboard, he pulled himself and the raft toward the ferry using the rope and then fastened it to the larger vessel, allowing the smaller craft to trail ten feet behind. 

“What do you plan to do with my raft?” asked Vatslav as the witcher climbed back aboard the ferry.

“Not sure, yet,” answered Geralt. “But I’d rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it.”

oOo

After watching the ferry drift down river, the Redanians on the west bank – the Redanian side of the river - turned and ran back towards their mounts. As they moved up into the wooded area, near their horses, the group wasn’t even aware of an unseen enemy, and they were suddenly hit with a barrage of crossbow bolts. Almost all of Radovid’s soldiers immediately fell dead. One lay on the ground, moaning but still alive.

“What now, Roche?” asked Ves.

“Let’s question the survivor. Then, we’ll see whether or not we should help the witcher,” he answered back. 

  
  
oOo

During the Redanians’ approach of the ferry on the smaller craft, Evie had been crouched down behind the wheel of the wagon, hoping to avoid being impaled by a crossbow bolt. Right after she had watched the witcher dive into the water, she had heard an ominous-sounding crash coming from the other side of the wagon. She peered underneath and saw Roach had fallen to her side. Blood was slowly spreading out onto the ferry’s wooden deck from some unseen wound. She immediately moved to the other side of the wagon, but since she was unsure what to do for the large animal, she decided to simply wait for Geralt’s return. She watched the witcher climb back aboard the ferry, heard him speak quickly with Vatslav, and then stared at him closely as he looked down at his mare. 

Roach, wild-eyed, was whinnying loudly and was struggling – and failing – to stand. A bolt had pierced the canon of her front leg, just under the knee area. Every time she put weight on that leg, she’d collapse back down to the deck of the ferry with a heavy thud. She also had a second bolt protruding from her neck, out of which flowed a slow and steady pulse of blood. Tears began to well in Evie’s eyes as she watched the beautiful horse struggling so. When she looked at her husband and saw the pain on his face, the tears fell down her cheeks. 

She moved forward, a step closer to the injured animal when she heard Geralt yell, “No! Stay back!” The witcher was looking at his wife. “She may crush you.”

Indeed, Roach was still thrashing about on the ferry, her heavy weight rocking the craft every time she lost her balance and crashed back down to the deck. It was then that the witcher cast an Axii Sign at his horse. Immediately, the horse seemed to calm down a bit. As Evie looked on, she noticed that more time passed between each of the mare’s efforts to rise. Eventually, her attempts to stand ceased, and she lay mostly still on her side. Evie looked at Geralt and then glanced around. Everyone else was also standing and looking at either the witcher or his mount. 

Evie watched her husband – his face now blank – walk up slowly and kneel down next to his mare’s head. Immediately, she knelt down on the other side of Roach, across from Geralt. The horse’s breathing was shallow but very fast. She watched the witcher gently stroke the mare’s neck as he inspected the wound, and then he turned to look down at the injured lower leg. 

“Damn it,” he said under his breath.

“Geralt, what can I do to help?”

He raised his head and looked into Evie’s eyes. She noticed the small frown on his face, and then, he gave a slight shake of his head.

“There’s only one thing to be done,” he answered gravely. 

As she watched the witcher pull the knife from his scabbard, a small cry of “No” escaped from her throat. Geralt was rubbing his hand gently across Roach’s neck and whispering to her, trying to calm her. Thanks to the witcher’s Axii, the mare seemed to be at peace. Though she knew that she was probably imagining it, Evie could swear that there was even a look of acceptance in the horse’s eye as it looked up at its owner.

“You were one of the best, girl. We went through hell together,” the witcher said softly. “I’ll miss you…friend.”. 

When Evie saw him raise his knife, she turned her ahead away. A moment later, it was done, and Evie stood up and walked behind her kneeling husband. As he was removing the bridle from Roach’s head, she bent down and hugged the witcher from behind, placing her arms around his neck and resting her cheek on top of his head. Upon feeling his wife’s embrace, he stopped moving his hands and let go of the leather halter. He sighed deeply and then simply rested his hands on top of his thighs. 

“I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“Yeah…me, too,” he replied as he reached up and gently squeezed her forearm. 

After a moment, he went back to the business of removing his saddle and other gear from his horse. He knew that he didn’t have time in that moment to dwell on her death. With the potential dangers ahead, there was too much to do. He had to keep moving. 

oOo

Evie looked to her witcher for reassurance, for the ferry was moving past the rocky cliffs at a frightening speed as the current of the river – now moving from a higher to lower elevation - picked up its pace. Luckily, there were no large rocks protruding upward from the river bottom so, as of yet, the large, wooden vessel had not impacted any dangerous obstacles. However, every time it careened off either side of the hard escarpment, Evie winced. 

“Are the rapids going to get worse?” Geralt asked Vatslav, as the two men hung on tightly to the ferry’s railing.

“Don’t know. Haven’t come down this far in many a year. Did most of my fishing and hunting up river,” the old man answered with a yell to be heard over the river’s noise. 

The group had been floating south for at least a half an hour, with Geralt constantly surveying the cliffs, looking for the Redanians’ next ambush. 

Suddenly, the ferry crashed into a boulder that was just under the surface of the water. With a loud bang, a vibration passed through the wood. The ferry lurched to a temporary stop, knocking Evie and Benny off their feet but, luckily, not into the river itself. Immediately, the current grabbed ahold of the ferry’s edge that was closest to the middle of the stream and spun it around. The side of the large craft slipped off the rock’s surface and continued its rudderless journey down river.

“Everybody best sit down!” yelled Vatslav. “The next crash could toss you in!”

Evie, now sitting down and holding onto one of the spokes of a wagon wheel, saw Geralt immediately cast Axii Signs at the remaining horses. It was better than nothing, but she didn’t think there was any way that his Signs were going to keep them calm if the rapids got worse. The witcher was also moving from horse to horse tying their reins to the ferry’s railings so that, she assumed, there’d be less chance of them falling into the dangerous currents. 

“Hang on!” screamed Lydial suddenly.

The ferry immediately dipped, its front edge plunging under the river’s surface. Cold, mountain water sprayed over the ferry and drenched everyone. And, then, the ferry began charging down river at even a greater velocity than before. It ricocheted off of boulders along the river’s edges while Evie grasped the spokes in a death-grip. She wasn’t sure that she’d ever gone this fast before, even on the back of a galloping stallion. She suddenly felt an arm wrap around her waist. Geralt had slid up behind her, his legs on either side of her, with one arm holding onto his wife and the other firmly gripping the wagon wheel. 

“What about the horses!?!” Evie asked loudly, as the equines whinnied in fear around them.

“We can find other horses! I can’t find another you,” the witcher yelled back, as a wave of water crashed over the surface of the ferry once again. 

Evie, with the sound of the rapids roaring in her ears, looked under the wagon to see that everyone else was also sitting down and hanging onto either to some part of the wagon or the ferry railing with all their strength. She peered down river to see what was coming up next, and the ferry was rapidly approaching another boulder. Just before impact, she closed her eyes, hoping that this one wouldn’t be the one to crack the vessel apart. She heard a heavy smack of wood impacting stone, and her body was jerked forward, but she felt Geralt holding her tightly. Then, she opened her eyes to see that they were still careening towards the white rapids ahead. The ferry had not taken a direct hit, only impacting the boulder at an angle before glancing off and continuing its trip without any noticeable reduction in speed. While the cold water had soaked her clothes and hair to her body, the muscles in her arms, shoulders, and back were burning. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could hang on, for with each dip in the river or crash against the rocks, her body was jerked about. So much so, that she was having difficulty even focusing her eyes on what was ahead. 

Suddenly, Evie felt her body twist, the ferry turning broadside and slamming into the jagged edge of a boulder in the middle of the river. The decades-old ferry could no longer withstand the unrelenting pounding, and it shattered at several points. One of the ferry’s railings snapped in two, which meant that the ropes holding the wagon in place were no longer secure. This caused the wagon – along with everyone using it for support – to be thrown forward towards the boulder. Evie cried out as her grip was torn loose from the wagon wheel. Her mind – in a fraction of a second - expected her body to immediately either plunge into the unrelenting rapids or slam against the rock, but neither happened. Instead, she sensed an incredibly painful squeezing sensation around her abdomen – so hard that it felt her ribs were about to crack - as her witcher held her closely to him. Their bodies suddenly jerked to a stop as the wagon crashed into the other railing. The broken ferry was no longer moving down river as it was hung up on the boulder. It had almost shattered into two pieces, but a few sturdy planks were still hanging on, keeping the two sections of the vessel connected. Then, even those planks snapped, giving way under the river’s unyielding pressure. One-third of the vessel basically disintegrated into nothing but random boards and logs. The two horses that had been tied to the railings on that front portion of the ferry fell into the churning water, and Evie quickly lost sight of them. The larger part of the ferry - the mostly undamaged section with the wagon - was pushed back into the middle of the rapids and began floating down river again.

Evie was on her back underneath the wagon, holding on to nothing. She was lying on top of her husband, and she felt like she could barely breathe. 

“Geralt…can you ease up a bit?” she gasped out.

“Sorry,” he replied, and instantly she felt him loosen his hold around her waist. She immediately inhaled deeply and felt pain all along her ribcage. She knew that she was going to be sore for a while.

She carefully slid off of Geralt, pushed her wet hair back from her eyes, and looked around as the ferry floated slowly along. She let out a sigh of relief as she peered down river to see that, presumably, they had made it through the worst. It looked like calm waters ahead. It was then that she heard some moaning coming from nearby so she and Geralt crawled out from beneath the wagon. What she saw made her gasp. Vatslav’s body was pinned between the ferry’s railing and one of the wagon’s wheels. It surprised her to notice that he didn’t even have the slightest of grimaces on his face.

“Hang on, Vatslav. We’ll get you out of there,” stated the witcher calmly. 

“I’ll grab his head,” said Evie as she moved next to them.

“Let’s try to stabilize his body, too,” remarked Benny from behind. 

Quickly, everyone crowded around the old man and began discussing what needed to be done. They soon had a plan and moved with haste into position. 

“One, two, three!” yelled Geralt, as he and Barcain, with a mighty jerk, pulled the wagon away from the railing. 

Evie, Benny, and Lydial did their best to support his body and then lay him down gently on the deck of the ferry, with Evie trying her hardest to keep his head stationary.

Benny looked down into Vatslav’s open eyes. The mage could see that he was both alive and conscious. 

“Where do you hurt?” the healer-sorcerer asked.

The old man exhaled, a little spittle coming from his mouth.

“Nowhere. I don’t feel nothing,” he answered with a frown. 

Benny looked up at Geralt, but neither said a word. 

Benny turned back to Vatslav. “Can you move your fingers for me?”

Everyone’s eyes immediately went to the old man’s hands, which remained completely still. 

“I’m buggered, ain’t I?” Vatslav asked.

No one answered, but when he peered at the witcher, Geralt looked him in the eye and nodded slowly. 

oOo

After Geralt had cut the rope on the ferry, the remaining Redanians on the east bank – the Kaedweni side of the river - had run back to their horses. The Redanian officer – the now-dead one with a Temerian crossbow bolt through his chest - had come up with a contingency plan before the encounter. He had instructed his men that if the witcher refused to hand over the historian and cut the ferry’s rope, then they’d simply ride south, no matter how long it took, until they found a shallow area where they could block the ferry’s passage. 

Ten miles downriver, just past a sharp bend, the river canyon opened up. This allowed the river to widen significantly and, consequently, become much shallower. Just as importantly, the rapids dramatically decreased in speed so that the river’s current slowed to just a gentle flow as it continued on its eventual destination towards the valley to the west. It was also at this spot that the eastern cliff became much less steep so it was there that the group of Redanian soldiers, based on their officer’s previous orders, had maneuvered their horses down a mountain trail towards the river’s east bank. One low-ranking soldier had been “voluntold” to ride his horse across the five-foot deep river to the west bank carrying a thick rope. On the far side, he found a small boulder that was imbedded deeply into the ground, wrapped the rope around it several times, and then securely tied off the end. Once done, the men on the east bank found an equally secure tree to which to tie the other end of the rope. The rope was now stretched tightly across the river about a foot above the water’s surface. At that point, all that the Redanian soldiers had to do was wait for the slow-moving ferry to arrive. 

oOo

The witcher looked up to see the sun high overhead. The river’s current was steady, slow moving, and still traveling southward through the mountain canyon. To the witcher’s surprise, the smaller craft was still in one piece and floating behind the damaged ferry. 

Geralt knew that at some point the Nimnar River would turn westward and head down out of the mountains and through the town of Gelibol in the Nimnar Valley before eventually pouring into the Buina River. While he was familiar with the river and its surrounding terrain down in the valley, he didn’t know any details of what still lay ahead of them on the river there in the mountains, but he was very sure that their broken-up ferry couldn’t withstand any more rapids. Just one more hard collision would probably shatter it into pieces. 

Suddenly, he was interrupted from his thoughts by a shout from high above. 

“Hello, down below!” A voice called from the top of the cliffs on the western side – the Redanian side – of the river. 

The witcher, along with everyone else on the craft, looked up. Gazing down upon them was Vernon Roche, walking his horse beside him. Evie heard Geralt mumble, “Swell,” under his breath.

It wasn’t that Geralt actively disliked the former commander of the Temerian Blue Stripes. In fact, the two men had battled side-by-side in the last couple of years on several separate occasions. That said, the witcher was very wary of him, for he knew that, ultimately, Vernon Roche’s values and loyalties were quite different than his own. In Geralt’s eyes, the man was blindly and somewhat fanatically dedicated to obtaining Temeria’s independence. That, in and of itself, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. However, the witcher knew that Roche was willing to do just about anything – allowing atrocities to be committed or even perpetrating them himself - on behalf of his idealistic, greater good. 

Just last year, Geralt had seen it himself firsthand. Roche had happily used a few citizens of a small Temerian village as intelligence assets to assist in his guerilla warfare against the invading Nilfgaardians. However, when he discovered that the Black Ones had found out about his informers and were going to kill everyone in the village in retaliation, Roche simply wrote them off as casualties of war, as the cost for Temeria’s liberty. The witcher had known, even prior to that event, just how deep Roche’s patriotism ran, but it was then that he’d decided that he would never truly be able to trust the Temerian. For if the commando viewed even his own countrymen’s lives as expendable on behalf of his theoretical, noble cause, then clearly there wasn’t anyone that he wouldn’t be willing to sacrifice. 

But the witcher had just never been a big-picture kind of guy. It was why he loathed royal courts and the politics found within, and it was why he knew that he’d never make a good military commander. He’d just never be able to treat living souls like pawns in a game, and, therefore, he hadn’t understood Roche’s stance on being willing to sacrifice those townsfolk. For what was the point of a free Temeria if all the Temerians were dead? It had only been Ves’ insistence – and her disobeying of her commander’s orders for non-interference – that had forced Roche’s hand to come to the villagers’ aid. 

Geralt knew that he and Roche could have a working relationship for only as long as Roche believed that the witcher was somehow useful for achieving his overall goals. But if the Temerian ever thought that the witcher’s death would somehow help his country regain its independence, Geralt had no doubt that Roche wouldn’t hesitate a bit to bury a dagger in his back – and then, not lose one wink of sleep over it. 

Of course, that made Vernon Roche, in the witcher’s mind, ultimately no different than almost everyone else he’d ever met. He knew that he could probably count on one hand the number of people in the world who didn’t think that the ends justified the means. Therefore, he wasn’t really surprised by the Temerian’s actions - for, in Geralt’s opinion, rationalization was without a doubt every man’s greatest skill. And it was a skill that didn’t even have to be learned and developed. All sapient creatures were simply born with it, just like their ability to lie, which was essentially what rationalization was. It was just self-deception. Lying to your conscience whenever you felt guilty for something you had done or were about to do. Knowing you were committing an act that skirted - if not outright crossed - the bounds of morality and ethics, but telling yourself, “There’s no other choice,” or, “She made me do it,” or, “It’ll be just this once, and, hey, everybody else does even worse…so what’s the big deal?” But regardless of the rationalization, they all served one purpose. To deflect blame and assuage guilt. It’s why animals and beasts never rationalized. They didn’t need to. They didn’t have a conscience so they simply never felt guilty. They just did what was in their nature. But, then again, so do we all, thought the witcher. 

“Guessing you didn’t just happen to be in the neighborhood!” The witcher’s voice echoed upward off the sides of the rocky cliffs. 

“You’d guess right! We were tracking a platoon of Redanians out of Tretogor! Took care of the ones on this side of the river. Seems you’ve caught Radovid’s attention…what have you done this time?”

“No idea…but we could use some help! I think that we’d all like to get off this ferry and onto hard ground as soon as possible! What do things look like up ahead?”

“I’ve already sent some scouts forward! They should be back shortly!”

“Who is that?” asked Evie softly.

“Vernon Roche.” 

Geralt then went on to explain his and Roche’s history. He told her that they’d done each other a few favors in the last two years, including when Roche came to Kaer Morhen last summer to help battle the Wild Hunt. 

“Then, I don’t understand. I’d think you’d be happy to see him, but you’re clearly not.”

“Just…be careful what you say around him. And don’t mention the Sword, okay?”

“Okay, Geralt.”

It was over an hour later before Roche finally appeared atop the cliff’s edge again and called back down to them.

“Looks like you got trouble ahead! There’s a low spot in the river a mile or so up, and a dozen or so Redanians have cordoned it off! We’d help you if we could, but there’s no way for us to get down to the river on this side! We could shoot some bolts at them from up here, but not much else!”

“Swell,” Geralt grumbled. “Thanks! We’ll figure something out!”

Then, he turned to look at those around him.

“Any ideas?” asked Evie.

“What are our resources?” Barcain asked.

The witcher looked around him. “A wagon, two horses, which are probably useless to us right now, the flat-bottomed boat -”

“I can’t believe it survived the rapids,” interrupted Lydial.

The witcher nodded his head. “We’ve got a lot of bombs. I made two case-loads at Kaer Morhen, but by the time we get close enough to throw them…I’m afraid the Redanians will have riddled the entire ferry with bolts and arrows.”

“They didn’t fire at us before when they were far away…there at the river crossing. Maybe they won’t this time either,” posited Lydial.

“I’m not willing to take that chance,” said Geralt, his eyes shifting to his wife. “And they may not be far away this time.”

“Exactly,” offered Barcain. “They didn’t hesitate to attack us once they got close to us with the boat.”

“Well, we’d better think of something quick because we can’t stop this ferry,” said Benny.

The witcher immediately looked at the mage and nodded. “That’s exactly what we need to do.”

Geralt found the anchor and tossed it over the side, but the ferry didn’t even noticeably slow down, much less stop. He looked to the south and saw a sharp bend down river. He also noticed that the cliff’s face on the east side of the river was no longer sheer. It was still too steep for a typical human to climb, but there were some trees and rock outcropping scattered along the side, including down towards the river’s edge. He hurried over to the rope that had been tied to the ferry’s now broken railing – the other end still tied to the wagon. He discarded the swords and crossbow from his back, and then he scooped up the loose end of the rope and dove into the river, swimming with all of his might against the current and towards the narrow east bank. 

Though, calling it a bank wasn’t truly accurate. There wasn’t a flat place for a person to stand, but there were some large rocks jutting up along the edge. Evie saw the witcher’s head break the surface of the water near the rocks. He climbed upward and drug the thick rope to the other side of a boulder. However, he didn’t even have time to completely circle the rope around the large rock before it immediately went taught. The force of the ferry being pushed down river almost pulled the witcher from his feet, but he wrapped the rope around his arms and pulled it tight against the rock face, trying to use as much friction as possible to slow the ferry’s momentum. He wedged his body into a tight space between two boulders, and pain shot through his shoulders as it felt like his arms were being pulled from their sockets. The witcher gritted his teeth, the veins popping from his neck as he tightened every muscle in his body, but, eventually, slowly, the pain eased as the ferry’s momentum down river came to an end. He exhaled deeply before, inch-by-inch, pulling the ferry up-river into his direction. Evie and the rest on the ferry also began pulling on their end of the rope as well, and within a couple of minutes the vessel was snuggled up to one of the boulders. 

Evie looked at her husband and felt pride swelling within her at what he’d just done. 

“Okay. You’ve stopped us. Now what?” she asked.

The witcher’s eyes shifted to the smaller, flat-bottomed boat and then back to Evie again. 

“I may have an idea.” 

After hearing it, Barcain stated, “It’s not bad, but how are you going to know when to shoot? Too soon and you may not kill them…too late and you’re fish food.”

Geralt rubbed his cheeks with his hand and nodded his head. 

Benny piped up. “Easy. I can conceal myself. So, I’ll ride next to Geralt and let him know when to shoot.”

The witcher shook his head. “I don’t like it, Benny.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you could die. That’s why.”

“The same could be said for you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m wearing armor, and I’m going to already have a Quen shield around me. I won’t have time to cast a Quen dome to protect you.”

Nobody said anything for a bit. Finally, the silence was broken.

“I’ll do it,” came a weak and raspy voice.

Everyone’s head turned towards Vatslav lying near them, flat on his back on the ferry’s deck. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Geralt.

“I’ll do it,” the old man said again.

“And just how do you propose to do that?” asked Lydial.

“Not too complicated. Set me up-right on the ferry so that I can see. When the time’s right, I yell out. Problem solved.”

“Absolutely not!” yelled Evie, followed by similar protestations from Lydial and Benny.

“Vatslav, that’s suicide,” said Lydial.

“The hell you say. It’s mercy,” he replied with steel in his voice. “Didn’t hear any of you complaining when Geralt put his horse down. What? I don’t deserve the same respect as an animal?” The old man was now wheezing from the exertion.

“It’s totally different,” replied Benny. “Your injury may not be fatal…or permanent. I’ve heard of situations where paralysis was only temporary. Within a week or two, your sensations and movement could come back.”

“That so? I’ve heard a lot of fairy tales in my day, too. Don’t mean I believe ‘em. And when I don’t have a miraculous healing…then which one of you is gonna feed me and wipe my ass for the rest of my life?” 

When no one said anything to that, Vatslav’s eyes moved to Geralt’s. 

“Witcher, talk some sense into ‘em. You know I’m right. No one ever comes back from this. Let me die my way… with some kind of purpose…and dignity. Not in some bed, layin’ in my own shit all day.”

The White Wolf’s eyes bore into Vatslav’s for several long moments, and then he met the determined gaze of both his wife and Lydial before lowering his head in contemplation. As he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, he thought, “Swell.”


	23. Chapter 23

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 11

Ves was lying on her belly near the cliff’s edge. Using some scrub-brush and rocks as cover, she peeked over the precipice and down towards the river. Across from her, she noticed that the cliffs on the opposite side of the Nimnar were much less steep. If she had been on that side of the river, then she could have easily descended to the water’s edge. But on her side, it would be impossible to make it down safely without a long rope with which to repel. A rope she didn’t have. She inched her body forward just another hair and then looked below about a hundred feet and saw at least ten Redanian soldiers on their horses in the middle of the river. The river was obviously much shallower in this area for she could see that the water’s surface stopped just above the riders’ knees. Roughly ten feet in front of the line of mounted soldiers was a rope stretched tight across the river’s surface. It was simple to see what their plan was. The rope would stop the ferry in the middle of the river, and from ten feet away, Geralt and his friends would be easy targets for the Redanians’ crossbows. And if the witcher jumped from the ferry in order to fight up close with his sword, then he would be hard-pressed to effectively attack in water that came up to his chest. The Redanians’ plan may have been simple, but she admired it for its ingenuity.

The blonde-haired Temerian was currently alone on top of the escarpment. She’d sent the other two scouts back to tell Roche what was ahead, but neither her commander nor the rest had yet arrived. Though she wasn’t that surprised. The terrain in the mountains on that side of the river was undulating and precarious – marked by high peaks and steep, deep ravines. She figured that whatever was going to happen down below would be over long before any of her compatriots arrived. As she looked at the scene below her, she thought about firing down on the Redanians. From that distance and elevation, she doubted if she’d hit what she was specifically aiming at, but surely a few crossbow bolts raining down from above would at least disrupt the Redanians’ plans. It was then that she saw the partially destroyed ferry with the wagon appear. It was coming slowly around the bend of the river off towards her left. From her vantage point, she could only see one person on the ferry. It appeared to be man, and he seemed to be injured because he wasn’t moving. He was simply seated, his back up-right against one of the front wheels of the wagon. 

oOo

Geralt had his eyes closed since there was nothing to see. He’d also learned that his hearing improved slightly when he closed his eyes, and at that moment, he was waiting for Vatslav’s signal. He was deliberately slowing down his breathing and heartrate. While adrenaline was very useful in the middle of most battles, he knew that he needed to be as calm as possible for what lay ahead. He realized that he probably only had one shot at success. He took his left hand off of the crossbow that he held across his chest and lightly touched the bolt to verify that it was still secure in the groove. His fingers came to the end of the bolt and felt the explosive tip. That gave the monster-slayer just a little more confidence that one shot would be all that he’d need.

oOo

As Ves watched the ferry continue down river, she picked up movement in her peripheral vision. She shifted her eyes and saw a smaller vessel coming around the river’s bend. The wooden craft looked to be empty except for what appeared to be a brown tarp spread out across its middle, one edge of the material hanging down into the water. Not seeing anyone on the flat-bottomed boat, her eyes jumped back to the ferry and watched in anticipation as its front edge finally caught on the rope that spanned the river. The rope gave just a little, but it held tight and stopped the slow-moving ferry’s progress. At that point, she could hear the lone man on the ferry talking with the Redanian soldiers, but she couldn’t make out the words. 

The Redanians – with crossbows still pointed at the ferry – cautiously walked their horses forward. After stopping on the other side of the rope, one soldier dismounted his horse and climbed aboard the broken vessel. Suddenly, Ves heard a shout from below, “Now!”

She picked up movement to her left – the brown tarp being tossed into the river - and when she focused her eyes on the smaller craft, she saw the White Wolf in the kneeling position – a Quen shield shimmering orange around him. She heard yelling from the Redanians as many of them fired their crossbows at the monster-slayer. His shield popped several times as the bolts ricocheted off, and it was only then that she noticed the witcher, too, had a crossbow in his hand. The small craft was less than fifteen feet from the back of the ferry when she saw the witcher shoot his weapon and then dive towards the water’s surface. Suddenly, the wagon and ferry exploded in a fiery ball of smoke and flames, with multiple detonations going off within the span of a second. The blast and the noise from the explosion were so unexpected that Ves involuntarily lurched back from the edge of the cliff. She took a deep breath and then quickly moved back to the precipice so that she could see down below, but for almost a minute the river was obscured by gray smoke. Eventually, as the smoke drifted away, the scene came into view. Her eyes picked up the bodies of dead horses floating down stream, but the ferry and wagon were virtually nowhere to be seen. She could make out only a few shards of wood – and possibly a small section of white tarp from the wagon – bobbing along the water’s surface. She couldn’t see a single living soldier. Whatever was left of them, Ves figured, was lying at the bottom of the river, weighed down by their metal armor. Finally, she saw the witcher, water up to his chest. He was slowly walking up stream, with a rope over his shoulder, pulling the smaller craft behind him. A small smile came to the Temerian’s face, and she shook her head. 

“He is such a badass,” she whispered to herself.

oOo

It had been over two hours since Geralt, Evie and the rest had dragged their soaked and exhausted bodies from the water. Two horses had survived the adventure down the river, and now Evie and Lydial rode those while the three men walked along beside them. Though the small, wooden flat-bottom boat was still functional, they had decided to abandon it. For one, it wasn’t big enough to carry them and the horses, and, secondly, no one wanted to risk facing anymore potential rapids. They’d had their fill of those. The river had finally turned west, and the group was now walking in the wooded mountains on the south side of the river down towards the Nimnar Valley. Geralt and Evie trailed a little behind the others, for Evie wanted some privacy so that she could speak with her husband. He wasn’t acting like himself.

Earlier, back on the river, both Evie and Lydial had tried to talk the witcher out of his decision to place Vatslav on the ferry. All the while, the old man had been arguing back just as vociferously. Barcain and Benny had even added their opinions. Geralt had stood there quietly for several long moments simply listening to everyone argue back and forth. No one, in truth, was listening to the other side’s opinion. 

Finally, the monster-slayer had had all he could stand and yelled, “Enough!” 

Instantly, everyone went silent and looked at him wide-eyed.

“It’s his life. It’s his decision…and this is what he wants. Unless anyone else here has a better idea on how to kill all those sons-of-bitches waiting for us round the bend.” 

No one said anything. 

“No?” he asked, looking everyone in the face. “Didn’t think so.” After that, they’d let him be. 

During the first hour or so after leaving the river, Geralt and Evie had walked side-by-side, mostly in silence. She had still been angry with him, with both his decision regarding Vatslav and also the way he had yelled at them. She’d been fine letting him wallow in his sullen mood. But as the first hour turned into two and the silence between them deepened, she started becoming concerned. And then, she remembered Roach. She’d been so focused on their argument over Vatslav that she hadn’t even considered how he still might be feeling about the death of his horse. And, now, she was feeling a bit guilty.

“Geralt, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I guess…Are you still upset with me?” 

Evie looked down at her husband. “A little bit. I understand why you think you did the right thing. I just didn’t…and don’t agree with it.”

“Evie, I know how much you value life, but what were the other options? And that’s not a rhetorical question. Please, tell me, what would you have done?”

“I wouldn’t have put him on that ferry.”

“Okay. Fair enough. Then, how would you have saved us all from the Redanians?”

She didn’t say anything for several seconds. “I don’t know.”

The witcher nodded. “Exactly. And even if we could have somehow escaped from the Redanians by some other means, do you honestly believe that we could haul a paralyzed man around the countryside until we finally found someone who’d take him in? Especially now, with apparently half the continent now looking for us?”

“You’re right. It would have been difficult, but I don’t believe ‘expediency’ or ‘convenience’ is a very good reason for making a decision when someone’s life is at stake.”

“Damn it, Evie. You act like you think I’m happy about what I did.”

“I know that you’re not. But I just don’t believe that there’s ever a right way to do a wrong thing. And I think killing him was wrong.”

“Really? So, you get to decide when killing is right or wrong? Because, if I remember correctly, you didn’t seem to have much issue with me killing Alderman Thacker back in Ban Ard. What’s the difference?”

“Geralt, if you want to know the truth, I really didn’t want you to kill Thacker either.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Then, why did you seem so okay with it?”

“Because of the circumstances. If there had actually been any kind of law and order in that town…someone who would have held him accountable for his actions, then I would have told you to hand Thacker over to them. But there wasn’t, and I didn’t want him free to continue to hurt others. Because he no doubt would have.”

The witcher didn’t say anything for a moment. “So, ultimately, you were okay with me killing Thacker in order to save others from future pain?”

“Yes.”

He nodded his head. “Well, that was my exact motivation for letting Vatslav go out the way that he wanted. As he said – it was more merciful than trying to keep him alive in his condition.”

Evie didn’t respond to that at first. Finally, she stated, “Okay, Geralt. If you say that was your motivation, then…okay.”

Geralt could hear the doubt in her voice, and it pierced his heart. He grabbed the reins and stopped her horse from moving forward. He looked up into his wife’s eyes.

“Evie…I need to know you’re still with me. You may not realize it, but you have all been looking to me to take care of whatever problems come our way. But it’s been more than that. It seems that you all expect me to make all the tough decisions for the group, too. And I never asked for that. Frankly…I’m willing to do it, but I don’t like it. Before, all I’d ever been responsible for in my life was me, but now…I’ve got you, which is great…but apparently, I’m responsible for everyone else, too? I’m somehow the de facto leader of this entire mission? I feel like I’ve got the weight of the world on my shoulders…so I need you to tell me that you understand. That you understand I was in a shit situation, with every decision being a bad one. Baby, I can’t do this without you. I need you on my side.” 

Evie looked down and saw the pleading in her husband’s eyes. She quickly got down from the horse and pulled Geralt into a hug.

“I am on your side, Geralt. And I always will be. You’re my husband.” She then stepped back to look into his face. “And, I’m sorry…I didn’t even realize it, but you’re right. I…we…have been looking to you to solve all our problems. It didn’t even occur to me how much pressure you must be feeling. I’ll try and be more supportive, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I think…part of the reason I didn’t want you to put Vatslav on the ferry is because…I’m just scared for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve made it clear about the darkness – the evil – inside of you. So, I know how easy it is for you to kill, and I don’t want you to…to ‘feed’ that evil. I want to help you from going down that path if…when you can avoid it.”

Geralt nodded, but before he could say anything else, he was distracted from noises coming towards them. He grabbed Evie by the hand, and they walked up to where the other three in their party had stopped. Moments later, Vernon Roche and his men rode up on horseback. 

“We finally found a place where we could cross to this side,” said the commando.

“We owe you one, Roche.”

The Temerian smiled. 

“Damn right, you do. And I do love having a witcher in my debt. You’ve been quite useful in the past,” he said before throwing the reins of the horse next to him in Geralt’s direction. 

oOo

_Redania_

“What do you think of their story?” asked Ves in a whisper.

Roche had sent the rest of his men back to Tretogor to continue their reconnaissance of the royal grounds, but he and Ves had remained with Geralt and the others. They had all stopped for the evening in a wooded area in the southern part of the Nimnar Valley to catch a few hours of sleep before continuing west. The two Temerians were lying next to one another a short distance from the others. 

“They’re not telling us the full truth.” Roche could just make out Ves nodding her head in the dark. “I have no doubt that Emhyr and now Radovid are after the historian…but, it’s not simply because of a book. I don’t believe for a second that she stole it because of its ‘historical significance’ or whatever tripe she mentioned. Neither Emhyr nor Radovid give a ploughing hell about history. They’re after her because of something she knows…that, or the book leads to something else.”

“So, what do you want to do?”

“Simple. We’re gonna join ‘em and find out the truth. Whatever it is they’re after…it could be very useful for us.”

oOo

_The seven-year-old boy huddled in the darkened closet with Letty. He and his twelve-year old sister were both on the floor, him hugging his knees while she had her arms wrapped around him. They had been ordered into the closet by their panic-stricken father just moments before the front door of the family’s hut had been kicked open, and now, tears streamed down their faces as they listened to the sounds coming from the other side of the closet door. The high-pitched screams of their mother, the pleading and yells from their father…and laughter. The boy would never forget the cruel laughter. He and his sister trembled with fear, and they held on to one another tightly for any kind of comfort, but they knew better than to cry. Knew better than to make any kind of noise._

_The house had been constructed in a typical fashion for their run-down town, which meant that the boards in both the floors and walls weren’t entirely flush with one another. This allowed a small amount of light to enter the closet. Just enough for the boy to look up and see that Letty had her eyes closed as she rocked back and forth. He peered through the cracks between the boards, trying to get a glimpse of his parents and their tormentors._

_“Keep your eyes open and look!” The boy heard the command coming from the other side of the wall. “Or, I’ll cut your ploughing eye-lids off.” That was followed by more laughter._   
  
_The boy didn’t know how long had passed until he finally heard his mother’s fearful cries and his father’s pleas eventually fade into nothing but feeble moans, interrupted by the occasional sob of grief. But the laughter and the intensity of whatever the men were doing to them hadn’t diminished – only his parents’ protestations._

_While tears ran down the boy’s cheeks, he wasn’t sure if they were tears of fear or anger. He was consumed with fear, but rage, too, boiled within. But he wasn’t just angry with the men outside. He was angry with himself. Angry with his own paralyzing fear. Angry with the helplessness he felt. He wanted to kick open the closet door and kill everyone who was hurting his parents, but he was too afraid of what would happen if he revealed himself. So overcome with emotions, the boy began to cry again, and a sob escaped from his throat._

_Letty held him tighter and rocked him faster. He heard her whisper faintly, “Malek, please…you gotta stay quiet.”_

_The boy then heard footsteps approaching the door, and both he and Letty held their breath._

_Suddenly, the door was thrown open. The sunlight rushed into the darkened closet, and Malek shut his eyes from the pain._

_“Well, well…lookey what we got here.”_

_He opened his eyes to see a large silhouette reaching down for him and his now-screaming sister. As he felt the man’s hands grasp his shirt, he let out a yell._

And then he woke.

Fringilla heard Malek exhale sharply and then felt him rise quickly from the bed, the sheet falling from his torso. She had actually been awake for a few moments, Malek’s moans and mumbling disrupting her sleep. But these middle-of-the-night disturbances weren’t anything new. They had happened every night that she had shared a bed with the man. She reached out and put a hand on his thigh and then waited. Seconds later, she felt his sweaty hand grasp hers.   
  
He sighed. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You want to talk about it?”

He shook his head and sighed again. “No. I’m fine.” It was the same answer he’d given her every time.

Fringilla, once again, felt annoyed. Not that he had woken her up. But, rather, because he had yet to ever disclose to her the contents of these recurring nightmares. This man that she had been sharing her bed and body with for the last several weeks was a bit of a mystery to her, and that concerned her because a mystery meant unpredictability. And given the dangerous tightrope that she was walking – a tightrope of either treason or revolution, depending upon one’s perspective - she preferred to be able to predict all of Malek’s moves and motivations. But she was honestly having trouble doing so. One moment, she saw Malek knock out one of his own men with a single punch for frightening a boy in Tarsus. In another instance, he threatened to kill the teenage girl in Kaer Morhen. Just what kind of man was he? And despite all of her charms and skills, she still couldn’t ascertain just where Malek stood with regards to Emhyr. Could she ever convince him that it was time for a different direction for the Empire? That it was time for a change in leadership? She was going to try everything in her power to do so.

The Nilfgaardian sorceress rubbed her hand gently and slowly along Malek’s thigh. 

“Here, let me help you go back to sleep.”

oOo

_Montecalvo_

Philippa Eilhart slammed the book of Essea closed – the one translated into Common - and tossed it onto her desk. She then stood and began pacing around the library. 

Oran knew better than to even make a comment. Even on her best days, his sister’s acid tongue was laced with sarcasm and ridicule, and it was clearly not a good day. He had been listening to Philippa sigh repeatedly for the last few hours as she finished reading the tome that they’d stolen at Kaer Morhen. A book she’d had her nose buried in for several days now.

She finally broke the silence herself. 

“If there is some clue in that damn book as to this powerful sword’s location, then I can’t find it. There’s nothing in there but the tedious history of the Aen Seidhe elves. That, and a bunch of nonsensical, religious poetry.”

Oran still remained silent. Since she hadn’t asked him a question, then he didn’t feel compelled to respond. Even though he could admit that he was still in love with Philippa, that didn’t mean that he enjoyed her condescension. And he’d learned quickly the best way to avoid it was to say as little as possible. It stung his pride a bit that he, the Ghost, a major player in the Hengfors crime world, would act a bit spineless towards a woman, but Philippa was no ordinary woman. Plus, he just loved her. He couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t his fault that the woman that his heart decided to cherish happened to be his own sister. So, even though it grated a bit, he was willing to play the subservient role if that meant keeping the peace with his sibling, for when she was happy, she was much kinder to him. She’d even let him into her bed. He’d always thought that pride was one of the most powerful of human emotions, but apparently, love was even stronger. 

“Do you have nothing to say?” she asked testily.

Oran thought for a moment, picking his words carefully.  
  
“That is a shame. Perhaps, I can help?” he finally answered his sister with a straight face.

“Speak.”

“I know a professor of history. His reputation is… a bit tarnished now, but he was once highly respected. Taught for years at the Oxenfurt Academy. Perhaps, he could assist us.”

“Just how do you know a highly-respected professor?”

“Sister, you’d be surprised at just who has called upon my services. There’s not a corner of this world where someone doesn’t want someone else dead. And that includes the hallowed halls of academia. They are quite cutthroat there.”

Philippa nodded. “Very well. Let’s go see this professor of yours.”

oOo

_The Great Sea_

Emperor Emhyr stood, facing the east, his hands gripping the railing of one of his frigates. The ship was one of three that were floating more or less at rest several miles west of Novigrad. He stared off into the direction of the free city and enjoyed the ocean breeze on his face. He was reviewing his military operation in his mind one last time. Though, in reality, now that he had already sent the rest of his armada northward, it was too late to abort the plan even if he wanted. 

He glanced at the two adjacent ships to either side of his, his eyes resting on the large, wooden boxes that were on each ships’ top decks. Reflexively, his hands went down to his pockets to touch the metal discs. He remembered Philippa Eilhart’s instructions when she’d given him the magical objects.

_“I cannot foresee the circumstances in which I will not be present to activate your ‘army’ myself. However, if the need should arise, you can do so with these discs. Simply press the two sides together until you hear the snap…and then, they are ready to receive your orders, Your Majesty.”_

_Emhyr looked at the two discs in his hands._

_“How long will their magical cores last once they are activated?”_

_“That’s indeterminate. There are simply too many factors to consider. But…I estimate a full three days at a minimum.”_

_“And if I need to deactivate them beforehand, I simply separate the discs?”_

_“In theory.”_

_Emhyr gave the sorceress a look._

_“That’s the best answer that I can give. These discs are revolutionary. Putting the power of this much magic into the hands of a non-magic user has never been done before. And, to complicate matters, my creations are such that this world has never seen. The amount of magic being harnessed by these creatures is beyond anything ever imagined…so I truly have no idea how it will all work out.” She then smiled widely. “But I do so look forward to seeing them in action.”_  
  
The emperor nodded to himself as he continued to look eastward towards Redania.

“As do I,” he said to himself.


	24. Chapter 24

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 12

_Redania_

“Geralt, are you sure it’s safe going through the sewers?” asked Evie.

“I’m positive it’s not. But it’s safer than trying to enter through the gates.”

The early morning mist was hovering over the canals that surrounded the free city of Novigrad. Through that fog, the witcher slowly and quietly rowed a small dinghy that he had acquired earlier. As remuneration, he had left a handful of crowns on the dilapidated dock where the small boat had been moored. He hoped that the owner – and not some random bloke – would find the payment, but, truthfully, he had more important things to concern himself with at the moment.

Several hours earlier, the group of seven – to Geralt, it seemed as if their little fellowship picked up a new member every week – had approached the outskirts of Novigrad just past midnight. While Evie and Lydial stayed hidden in the darkness, Geralt and the rest had done some reconnaissance and discovered that every main thoroughfare leading into the city was highly guarded by witch hunters, guards of the temple of the Eternal Fire, and Redanian soldiers. Getting into the city would be even more precarious and difficult than the last time he’d been there the previous summer. Outside the gates, lining the walls and the bridges, were corpses of various nonhuman species. Some were charred. Some impaled. Others hanged. High above, along the tops of the city’s walls, there were dozens and dozens of heads mounted on spikes, their black, swollen tongues protruding from their mouths. Blowflies buzzed all about, and the smell of decay filled the air. Clearly, the violence towards nonhumans had intensified in the last twelve months. The witcher wondered if his various nonhuman friends – Zoltan, Dudu, Eibhear, and Vimme - had made it out of the city alive, but wonder is all that he figured he could do. He doubted that he’d actually get a chance to check on his friends’ whereabouts.

Given that the city more than likely had threats on literally every street corner, then clearly stealth was of paramount importance. Thus, it was decided that the smaller the incursion group the better. Of the seven, none knew the layout of Novigrad better than the witcher, but even if that hadn’t been the case, there wasn’t a chance in hell that he was going to let Evie enter that den of villainy without him by her side. Therefore, it was finally determined that just the two of them would attempt to infiltrate the city’s fortified perimeter. Geralt hoped that he and Evie could sneak in, get the information that they needed, and then sneak back out all within a couple of hours, but he knew that was very wishful thinking. In his experience, virtually all of his plans hit a snag somewhere along the line.

The witcher stopped rowing and put the oars inside the dinghy as the boat approached a small ledge that jutted out from the sheer face of the city wall. Evie immediately knew that they were near the sewers as the smell hit her like a punch to the nose. She did her best not to gag. She looked up and – even though it was too dark to actually see it - she could tell that they were directly below St. Gregory’s Bridge, which connected the northern and southern parts of the city. Stars were visible in the sky on either side of it, but straight above her was nothing but darkness.

Geralt leapt from the dinghy onto the hard ground and then helped Evie do the same. High walls of stone and brick rose straight up and towered above them. Evie saw at once that there was no way they could enter the city by climbing those. She then looked to her right at a large, pitch-black opening covered by a metal grate. She turned and peered at Geralt, waiting for his next instructions. She saw him looking at the sewer’s opening and back at her several times, but he wasn’t saying or doing anything else. 

“What is it? Is something wrong?” she asked.

He was quiet for several more moments before he finally spoke.

“Evie, what are we doing?”

She furrowed her brow. “What do you mean? You know what we’re doing. We need to speak with Claude about the tome. I think he can help us.”

Geralt shook his head. “No. I mean…why are we even bothering with this whole mess? Let’s just go.”

“What are you talking about? Go where?”

“Anywhere. Let’s just get on a boat and sail west. As far away as possible. You and me.”

“Geralt…what about the Sword? 

“To hell with the Sword,” he said with heat. If it was possible to both yell and whisper at the same time, the witcher had just done it. “What is your obsession with finding it anyway? I honestly don’t understand. Are you trying to prove something to your father?”

Evie calmly stared into the witcher’s face and slowly shook her head. 

“It’s not about my father. It’s not even about me. It’s about doing the right thing. It’s about not letting it fall into Emhyr’s hands.” 

“I say…let the son-of-a-bitch have it.”

“But…we can’t. He could wipe out all the northern kingdoms. Do you want him in control of the entire Continent?”

“Evie, I don’t give a damn…about kingdoms or empires. I only care about you. So, let’s just leave. We don’t have to be involved. Let everyone on this gods-forsaken Continent kill each other for all I care. They all deserve one another.”

“Geralt, you can’t mean that.”

“The hell I can’t. There’s no goodness here, Evie. There is nothing worth saving. You act as if Emhyr is the bad guy. Let me clue you in - there are no good guys. Whoever replaces him will be just as bad. The history of this Continent is nothing but a history of war and oppression. For as long as I’ve been alive – long before Emhyr and Radovid were even born - the races of this land have done nothing but kill each other, and it hasn’t mattered which kings or which emperors sat on the thrones. Hell, you’re a historian. You of all people should know that. There’s never been peace…and there never will be. So, what does it matter if they wage war with some new elven weapon or they simply go about it how they’ve always done it? Us finding the Sword won’t change a damn thing.” 

“So…we just do nothing? We refuse to stand up against that oppression? Run away…like cowards?” A confused expression came to her face. “This isn’t like you, Geralt. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met. What is going on with you?”

Geralt lowered his eyes from hers and shook his head.

“Geralt?” she asked softly.

The witcher slowly raised his head again and stared into her eyes.

“I already know how this is gonna end.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“What are you talking about? How what’s going to end?”

“I can’t save you, Evie,” he said slowly. “Just like I couldn’t save Ciri. Just like I couldn’t save Iorveth…or Isaac…or Vatslav or Roach. I’m doing everything that I know to do…but the ones I care about still keep dying. It’s blind luck that you’re still alive. So, let’s just leave. I…I can’t lose you, too.”

The look in Geralt’s eyes was making Evie’s heart break. She stepped close and touched his cheek and then rested her hand on the side of his neck. 

“Is this why you’re having nightmares again?” she asked gently. 

Since their wedding, Geralt had been free of his nightmares, but they had returned two nights ago after their time on the Nimnar River. They had not only woken Geralt from his sleep, but they’d woken her, too. 

He lowered his head and gave it a slight shake. “I don’t know. Probably.”

Evie reached up and grasped Geralt with both hands. 

“Geralt, I don’t want us to die, either. I want to grow old and gray with you. But I feel like – no, I know that finding this Sword is the right thing to do. And this isn’t simply the stubborn historian in me saying that. This Sword – or rod or whatever it is - isn’t just some ordinary artifact to be put in a museum. It’s something…other-worldly. I’m almost positive that it’s tied to Apophis, which means it could even be connected to the Conjunction of the Spheres. Who knows? It may have even played some role in bringing magic into this world. Finding the Sword is greater than just the two of us. To be honest, I feel like this is all a part of Essea’s plan…and I want to be a part of it. I want to obey him. Didn’t you tell me the same thing back in the Blue Mountains? That you felt him leading you.”

The witcher shook his head. “Not about this. I’ve just felt him telling me to be with you, to protect you. I haven’t sensed one thing from him about the Sword.”

“Then, do you know why he’s leading you to be with me, to protect me?”

He shook his head again. “No. Why?”

She smiled. “Well, I don’t know either, but I’m happy he is. I’m happy you’ve listened to him. So…let’s both just keep trusting in his leading. Like in that conversation you had with Nain, remember? We’re just too close to the painting right now. We can’t see the big picture. So, we just have to keep trusting and obeying him even when we don’t understand…right?”

He exhaled deeply and then nodded his head. “I’m trying, Evie. I’m trying real hard.”

“I know you are, Geralt. And I love you for it.” 

She leaned in close and kissed her husband tenderly.   
  
“So, Witcher, what’s the next step?” she asked after breaking the kiss. “We’re about to head into danger. What do we need to do to walk out safely?”

Upon hearing that question, Evie saw iron resolve come to Geralt’s eyes. 

“Right,” he said, nodding his head. “More than likely, we’ll face drowners ahead. They’re not the most dangerous of creatures for a witcher, especially on land, but they could kill you quickly, particularly if you get surrounded. But I also once came across a vampire in there, and they’re very dangerous – even for me. So, I think the safest plan is for me to scout ahead one tunnel at a time, remove any danger, and then come back to get you. And, we’ll just repeat that process until we get to an exit. But that doesn’t mean that I want you sitting back, doing nothing. Have your crossbow and a bomb at the ready. Okay?” 

Evie really wanted to be right next to Geralt as he fought whatever lay ahead in the tunnels, for she cared just as much about his safety as he did for hers. But she knew that, at that moment, what he needed most was the calming knowledge that she was free from danger. Therefore, she was willing to put aside what she wanted to help her husband be the strong leader they both needed him to be. 

“Okay,” she said with a nod. “Whatever you need me to do.”

Earlier, the witcher had coated his silver blade with necrophage oil. Now, he grabbed three vials from a pouch. 

“I’ve warned before about touching me when I have potions coursing through me. But I need to warn you again. I’m about to take an elixir called Black Blood.”

“Are you serious? You’re actually going to drink something called Black Blood?”

“Yeah. And it’s as bad as it sounds. It basically turns my blood into acid. It’s particularly useful against necrophages and vampires. Anyway, until I tell you it’s safe, don’t touch me at all.”

“Got it.” 

Evie watched as the witcher tilted his head back and downed the three potions. He inhaled sharply through clenched jaws. He seemed to stagger slightly and quickly put his left hand out against the brick wall to steady himself. He stood there silently for almost half a minute, simply breathing in and out slowly and deeply. Eventually, he looked at Evie. 

“Okay. I don’t want you out here by yourself. So, after I enter the sewers, step in right behind me. But, then…just stop. Don’t follow me. Don’t investigate anything. I’ll come back for you when things are clear. And stay along the edges of the tunnel. The sludge and sewage runs down the middle. Any questions?” 

Evie shook her head and then watched Geralt move through an opening in the grate and into the tunnel. She stepped in right behind him and was both immediately assaulted by the stench and swallowed up by the darkness. She lifted her hand up to cover her nose and mouth and literally couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. She reached straight out in front of her, hoping to make contact with the back of the witcher, but he was already gone. She just blindly swept the empty air in front of her. As she pulled her hand back to cover her nose and mouth, she realized that she could hear noises coming from further up the tunnel. The unmistakable sounds of rodents – tiny claws scratching the brick walls and floors of the sewer as they scurried along. The squeaks emanating from their disease-infested mouths sent a shiver up her spine, and she immediately moved her hand down to her bandolier and gripped a bomb.

“Geralt!” she hissed. 

There was no reply. She whispered his name again, but again, the sounds of sewage and rats running along the ground was the only answer she heard. She turned her head to look behind her. The illumination from the stars was just enough that she could make out the black water of the canal. 

“What’s wrong?” 

His voice was suddenly two feet behind her, and she yelped and jumped back towards the sewer’s exit. She hadn’t heard him approach. He was like a ghost in the dark. 

“Damn it, Geralt!” she gasped. “Don’t scare me like that.” 

“Sorry. So, what is it? I heard you call my name.”

“I…I just wanted to say hurry back.”

He paused briefly before answering. “Okay.” 

She wanted to kiss and hug him one last time, but she knew she couldn’t due to the potions that he’d consumed. She opened her eyes as wide as she could, hoping to catch a glimpse of her husband, but the darkness was simply too thick. She could almost sense it pressing in around her.  
  
“Do you think it would be okay if I lit a torch?” she whispered.

But he didn’t answer. 

“Geralt?”

She reached out in front of her again but only felt the empty air. He was already gone. 

“Damn it.”

Her heart was still racing from having been startled so. She really wanted to lean her back against the wall of the tunnel. The thought of having something solid behind her so that nothing could sneak up on her was comforting. However, then she thought about what potentially slimy, disgusting sludge could be oozing down the wall and decided against it. 

To distract herself from the fact that she was now alone in the darkness, Evie thought about their discussion earlier at the sewer entrance. She truly did understand Geralt’s point of view. There was a large part of her that would like to simply run away, too. She didn’t enjoy being in danger. Standing in this rat-infested sewer confirmed that. She’d much rather be living a peaceful life with her witcher on their vineyard in Toussaint. But she was truly convinced that Essea wanted them to find the Sword. To what end, she wasn’t sure, but she could feel it down in her soul. She hadn’t received any dreams or visions telling her that this was Essea’s plan, but she simply believed that everything that had happened in the past several weeks was just too much of a coincidence to be anything other the divine hand of God. And she realized something else - that she had never felt more purposeful than in the last month, doing what she thought was his will. 

Those last thoughts were truly strange ones, though. Having grown up hearing stories from her grandmother, she obviously knew of Essea, but the truth was that prior to meeting Geralt, she wouldn’t have said that she was one of his followers or even truly believed in his existence. To her, Essea had been simply one of the many gods in the pantheon of the world’s religions. No more real or meaningful to her than Melitele, the Great Sun, Freya, or any other. She had certainly always believed in a higher power, but she’d never adhered to any one single religion. In her mind, there was simply one God at the top of the ‘mountain,’ and all the different religions were just the various pathways to ascend to the summit. They all led to the same place. Thus, it didn’t ultimately matter which religion you followed or what name you called God. As long as you simply did your best to live a good life, then you’d eventually get to the peak regardless of which side of the mountain you climbed. But, in the last four weeks, her thoughts about God had changed, and she wasn’t exactly sure why. Perhaps it was due to all the discussions she’d been having with Geralt and Nain. Maybe, it was due to the extensive reading and translation of the Essean tome that she’d undertaken in the last month. Regardless, something had happened to her. Something she couldn’t explain. Despite the many questions she still possessed about him and his ways, she was now simply convinced that Essea was the one, true living God. Those thoughts, she realized, were bringing her peace as she stood in the dark, and so she began to pray to Essea, that he would protect Geralt. And the longer she prayed, the more at ease she felt.

After several minutes, she was suddenly brought out of her prayer by the distant sounds of screeching coming from somewhere in darkness. She wasn’t sure what was making the noise, but it was clearly not human, and the noise was too loud to be from rats. Instantly, the fear that she had previously felt flooded back in as she wondered if Geralt was safe. Despite his instructions to stay put, she started gradually taking small steps forward, towards the commotion. If he was hurt, then she had to help him. 

Evie wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d last spoken to Geralt, but, to her, it felt like half an hour. But, then, less than five minutes after the terrifying, screeching noises had echoed down the tunnels, she heard her name being called from somewhere ahead of her. 

“I’m coming back down,” she heard Geralt whisper. And, then, suddenly, he was right in front of her.

“It’s me,” he said. “I tried not to scare you that time.” 

“Thanks,” she answered in a shaky voice. “What was that noise?”

“Drowners.”

“Are you injured?” 

“No. Piece of cake. Come on. I’m going to turn around. Just grab one of my scabbards and follow me.”

As they started to creep along in the darkened tunnel, she kept hearing the occasional loud squeal in front of Geralt. It sounded like they were coming from rats.

“What is going on?” she asked.

“Skewering any rats that I see. Wouldn’t be good if they bit you.”

“No…no it wouldn’t. Thanks.” There was a mixture of genuine appreciation and trepidation in her voice. 

For several minutes, Geralt and Evie walked slowly along in the blackness. After the witcher had made numerous left and right turns, Evie was utterly lost. She realized that she’d never make it back to the sewer’s entrance on her own. If anything happened to the witcher, she knew that she’d be completely helpless. Even though Geralt was right in front of her, she could feel her anxiety rising with every step, for she knew that shortly he’d be leaving her alone again.

Suddenly, Geralt whispered, “We need to stop right here.”

Evie wouldn’t have thought that it was possible, but the tunnels seemed even darker than before. 

“I can’t even see where ‘here’ is.” 

“It’ll be okay. Just like the first time. I’ll only be gone for a few minutes, and then I’ll come back and get you when I know it’s safe ahead.”

Evie held on tightly to his scabbard. 

“Geralt, please. I know that you want me to stay safe, but please don’t leave me by myself again. I can’t stand being alone down here in the dark. If we see any monsters, I promise I’ll stay back…I won’t get in the way, but don’t leave me alone again. Please.” 

The witcher turned around to look at his wife. The Cat potion that he had taken earlier enhanced his already superhuman night-vision capabilities so he could clearly see the fear on her face. But even if he hadn’t been able to see it, the fear in her voice was unmistakable. He hated that. Hated that she was terrified. Hated that he was putting his own wife in danger. Hated that, in that moment, he couldn’t even pull her into a hug to comfort her. And, then, he could feel the anger within start to build. Anger at the situation they were in. Anger at Emhyr…at Philippa…at Radovid. Anger at himself. And anger at Essea. Whatever plan Essea had with regards to this Sword, why couldn’t he just do it himself? If he was such an all-powerful God, then why did he even need any help? Why get Evie involved at all? Geralt didn’t understand any of it. He may have come to the point where he believed in Essea’s existence, but that was about the extent of his belief. He was having a hard time trusting that Essea was in control of this ‘plan’ to find the Sword. Too many people had already died on this journey for Geralt to believe that. And if Isaac and the others having to die was a part of Essea’s plan, then, frankly, Geralt wanted no part of it.

“Okay. I won’t leave you alone. Ever again.” He saw the look of relief on her face as she exhaled deeply. “We’re almost to an exit anyway. But, if we encounter anything from here on out, please stay back and let me handle it, okay? I mean, hell, you’re not even wearing any armor.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t want to get near anything down here.”

The two made their way slowly through the tunnels, the witcher giving a quick flick of his blade anytime a rat crossed his path. Eventually, he stopped unexpectedly, causing Evie to bump into his back.

“Why’d you stop?” she whispered.

“Shhhh.”

Like every known woman alive, being shushed rankled Evie, but given the circumstances, she decided to give her husband a pass this time. 

After about five more seconds of silence, she asked, “What do you hear?”

“Nothing…and that’s what worries me. It’s completely silent.”

Evie strained her ears. Sure enough, she couldn’t pick up the faintest of sounds either. Not any rats scurrying along the tunnel floor. Not even the drip of water or sewage through any pipes. The complete silence was unnatural and unnerving. 

“Ah, damn it!” the witcher exclaimed, and then Evie was startled by a Quen Sign being cast just inches in front of her.

“What! What is it?” she hissed.

“Fog…and it shouldn’t be down here. Stay here. And whatever you do, stay out of the fog,” he said before moving forward. 

The shimmer of his Quen shield produced just enough illumination that Evie could see the tunnel ahead. She watched the witcher approach a grate that spanned the entirety of the tunnel. As he passed through the open door of the grate, he grabbed it with his left hand and slammed it shut behind him - the loud, metallic clank reverberating down the stone walls of the tunnel. On the other side of the grate, she could no longer see the tunnel’s walls. She assumed that he’d walked into some kind of open area, but she had no way of knowing how big it was. Then, suddenly, she could detect just the dimmest of white light through the fog, like a beacon on a gloomy night. 

As Geralt approached the fog, he pulled a Moon Dust bomb from his belt, and suddenly, to Evie’s eyes, it looked as if the fog started to swirl in front of the witcher. Immediately, he tossed the bomb into the fog, and when it exploded against the stone floor near his feet, a hideous monster instantaneously appeared right in front of him. The tall, skeletal-like creature slashed its claws at the monster-slayer, shattering his Quen shield and causing the tunnel to be swallowed by the darkness again. Evie had only glimpsed the beast momentarily, but, to her, it looked like a much bigger and much more dangerous nekker with particularly long claws and an enormous head.

While Evie couldn’t see anything in the blackness, she could clearly hear the monster hissing and screeching. It took a moment, but then she realized that she was hearing multiple monsters, not just one. Suddenly, the room ahead glowed dimly in orange light as Geralt cast another Quen Sign. She heard more monstrous howls and saw a flash of light as the witcher signed a flaming Igni, and then she saw him skip backwards across her line of sight to the other side of the room. Almost immediately, she noticed the thick, swirling fog heading in his direction.

Evie didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to throw any bombs into the room for fear of injuring Geralt, and she figured that a crossbow bolt would pass directly through the mist. She began to inch her way forward towards the grate, hoping that she could get a better look at what was ahead. She wanted to help Geralt in any way that she could. Maybe when the creature showed itself next, she could fire off a bolt – if not to kill it, then to at least distract it so that Geralt could finish it off. 

Geralt – standing inside a storage room with various barrels, crates, and bags full of building materials - quickly realized that he was facing not one but two foglets, magical creatures that could transform their bodies into immaterial mist to hide within fog. These monsters typically prowled in swamps and caves, locations where fog naturally arose. However, he also knew that they could magically create their own fog when needed. Like in these sewers. If their immaterial form didn’t make them hard enough to kill, they also had the ability to conjure corporeal copies of themselves to aid in their attacks. Thus, in that small room, the witcher found himself battling anywhere between two to six foglets at once. 

The White Wolf cast an Aard at the fog circling towards him. The telekinetic blast impacted three foglets, causing them to materialize and knocking them back several feet. The monster-slayer whirled, slicing and spinning his way through the hideous creatures. His whirl came to a stop, and he saw another ball of thick fog quickly approaching from his right. He turned and cast another Aard in its direction. The lone foglet flew backwards and slammed into the metal grate directly in front of Evie, eliciting a frightened yell from the historian. The witcher looked to his left and saw a large, storage crate next to him. He spun his body, picking up the heavy box as he did so, and as he completed the turn, he heaved it as hard as he could. The crate slammed into the foglet, knocking it, once again, back against the now-damaged metal door. 

Seeing the monster pinned against the grate ten feet in front of her, Evie hopped back to give herself a bit of distance and then tossed a Dancing Star bomb in its direction. The explosive device detonated when it hit the metal, exploding in a fiery ball, and the foglet screeched in pain as its body began to burn. She immediately lifted her crossbow and fired a bolt into the monster’s back, making it howl even more.   
  
The witcher battled the other foglet in the storage room - a blur of dodges, twists, and attacks. The bomb thrown by Evie exploded behind him, distracting him for just a moment. A moment was all the creature needed. The foglet swiped downward with its left claw, again smashing the witcher’s Quen shield. In the blink of the eye, before Geralt had a chance to evade, the monster attacked with its right claw, drawing blood as its hardened nails pierced Geralt’s leather armor along his shoulder. The White Wolf didn’t even wince, but the foglet howled as the witcher’s toxic blood began to eat through the flesh of its fingers. The monster-slayer ignored the wound and swung his sword true – removing the foglet’s head. He quickly cast another Quen, and immediately ran towards the foglet still pinned to the grate. Just before plunging his sword through its chest, the foglet transformed into mist, and his sword pierced nothing but air, the blade passing through an opening in the grate. Geralt jumped back, preparing himself for the next attack, but instead of moving towards the witcher, the fog drifted backward, through the grate and into the tunnel where Evie stood. As he realized what was happening, the witcher’s eyes went wide.

“Evie, run!”

Geralt threw the crate aside and reached for the metal door, but when he tried to pull it open, it wouldn’t budge. The impact from the foglet slamming into it had bent the grate, and now the door was jammed shut. The witcher put his foot up on the grate and pulled on the door with all his strength, letting out an agonizing shout, the veins popping from his neck. But the door stayed closed. 

He lifted his eyes towards to the tunnel, and he yelled again, “Run, Evie! Run!” 

Evie had her head down trying to re-cock her crossbow. When she heard Geralt yell her name, she raised her head and saw the fog slowly moving in her direction. She immediately threw the crossbow into the fog and ran down the pitch-black tunnel as fast as she could. She heard a hissing growl behind her, and when she looked back, she could just make out the silhouette of the monster, back-lit by Geralt’s Quen shield. She kept running until her lungs burned and she was no longer in sight of Geralt. She paused for just a second to catch her breath and realized that she was completely enveloped by the darkness. She tried to listen closely for the monster, but her breathing was too loud. She took a gulp of air and held her breath, but she still heard nothing except her blood pounding in her ears. She reached out her hand and felt the cold brick of the tunnel. She turned and started running again, now keeping her fingertips along the wall to give her some sense of where she was in the dark.

Less than a minute later, she lost touch with the stone wall of the tunnel, but before her brain even registered that fact, her face smacked into a hard surface, and she fell back onto her rear. Pain was shooting through her forehead, and she was now seeing nothing but white flashes of light. She crawled forward and touched the wall in front of her and realized that the tunnel she’d been fleeing down had ended. Then, she heard a monstrous hissing sound echo down the tunnel towards her. She staggered to her feet and headed to the right, now with both hands out if front of her. The hissing behind her was growing louder and closer. Suddenly, she heard an explosion from somewhere deep in the sewers, but she didn’t stop to contemplate it. She knew that she had to keep moving.

She had only stumbled forward about twenty feet when she ran into something that hit her right below her knees. She let out a small yelp as pain shot through her shins, and she fell forward, her palms landing on a flat, wooden surface. She frantically began running her hands over the wood. It felt like some kind of platform or scaffolding that held boxes and crates. She bent down and blindly reached under the platform. When she felt nothing but air, she quickly dropped onto her stomach and crawled forward. She had only crawled a few feet when her fingertips hit a brick wall. Obviously, the platform was only three or four feet wide. She knew her legs were still exposed so she immediately flipped onto her side and brought her knees up to her chest. She slowly lifted one hand and felt the bottom of the wooden platform just above her head. She moved her hand downward towards her feet, sensing the wood the entire time. She continued to scooch her body back against the wall as tight as she could and hoped that she was now hidden. And then she listened. 

A minute passed while Evie did her best to control her breathing and strained her ears to pick up any kind of sounds, but all she could hear was sewer water dripping from somewhere nearby. And then she heard the squeak of a rat, and a moment later, she felt something crawl onto her foot. Her body involuntarily jerked, and she immediately covered her mouth with her hand, not wanting to scream. The large rodent slowly crawled up her leg, and she felt its claws digging into the fabric of her trousers. It moved its snout back and forth across her body, both sniffing and making tiny nibbling noises with its mouth. She squeezed both hands into tight fists as the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. As it made its way up her torso and onto her right arm, she carefully moved her left hand towards the cat-sized rat. She could hear it breathing just inches from her ear. Quickly, she grabbed it by its fur and violently tossed it away from her. She heard it squeal when it hit the floor, and then it scurried off. She curled herself up tighter into the fetal position and hugged her knees as hard as she could as shivers ran up her spine. 

As she lay on the hard, brick floor, her heart pounding in her chest, the strangest thing happened. Suddenly, verses from the Essean tome flooded into her thoughts. Words that had resonated with her when she had first read them in the original Elder Speech and, again, when she’d translated them into Common for Geralt’s book less than two weeks ago. And despite her fears – or perhaps, because of them - she began to whisper Essea’s promise to herself. 

“Fear not, for I am with you. Be not troubled, for I am your God. I will give you strength in your weakness; I will help in your affliction; and I will hold you securely in my righteous right hand,” was the verse that she began to repeat over and over in her mind.

Despite the calming influence of the prayer, there was so much adrenaline coursing through her veins and into her muscles that her body started to shake. And then she heard it. The hissing growl of the foglet. She wasn’t sure, but it sounded like the monster had arrived at the tunnel intersection where she’d slammed her face into the wall. She immediately held her breath, trying her best not to make any noise. For ten, then twenty, then thirty seconds she heard nothing. She was staring straight ahead into the darkness, but there was not even the tiniest ray of light penetrating the blackness. And then she heard the sounds of steps on the stone floor of the tunnel. Steps that were splashing through water. Steps heading in her direction. 

“Please, let it go past me,” she prayed in silence.

But the scuffling of footsteps stopped just in front of her hiding place. She could detect the foglet breathing deeply. 

Then, her eyes widened as she realized the breathing was getting closer. It sounded like the monster was now kneeling in front of the platform. She would swear that it was just inches in front of her. 

Suddenly, she heard a hiss and felt the rake of a claw across her knees. She screamed in pain and flattened her body against the back wall of the tunnel. 

“Geralt! Geralt!” she screamed as she could feel the monster’s claw slicing the air just inches from her. After several missed attempts, she sensed the creature pull its arm back. She couldn’t see it, but she knew it was staring right at her. A menacing, slow hiss escaped its throat, and she could smell the stench of decay on its breath. 

Then, the hiss was gone, and she heard noises coming from above her. The foglet smashed the barrels and crates that were on top of the platform and then began prying at the wooden boards, screeching in anger. Evie yelled in fright as the monster jammed its sharp nails into the spaces between the slats and tried to tear them apart. Evie heard the wood snapping just above her head. She reached down to her thigh and grabbed the knife from its scabbard. She held it in front of her, both hands on the hilt, not really knowing what to do next. She heard a loud cracking sound above her and then a long, slow hiss from just a foot above her head. She blindly jabbed her knife upwards and felt it sink into the monster’s face. The foglet let out an angry cry, and Evie desperately shifted her body away from the opening above. The problem was that she couldn’t see just where the wooden platform ended. She didn’t want to shift too much and maneuver herself out from under its protection. She curled herself back into a tight ball, trembling with her back against the wall, and, in her mind, she cried out to Essea. 

“Essea, please save me. Help Geralt find me,” she thought to herself over and over. 

oOo

The witcher let go of the metal grate and yelled in frustration. He quickly turned around and scanned the room. In one corner, next to a crate, a sledge hammer caught his eye. He ran over, grabbed it, and then returned to the metal grate. He swung the heavy tool against the door several times, but it still remained closed. In fact, he thought that the blows might have actually made things worse. His eyes quickly moved to his right, and he saw a small gap between the grate and the brick wall. An idea flashed through his mind, and he started pounding away at the brick wall in that area. With each swing of the hammer, he knocked away chunks of brick and mortar. He looked and saw that the gap was now big enough for his plan. He grabbed two Dancing Star bombs from his bandolier and placed them both securely in the gap between the grate and the wall. He moved to the other side of the room, and just after hurling his last Dancing Star at the opposite wall, he cast a Quen dome and covered his ears. The explosion shook the room, and bits of stone bounced off his shield. He ran through the smoke and looked at the result. The grate was mangled and there was a large opening in the brick wall. He squeezed through and began sprinting down the tunnel. He had to get to Evie. Despite the fact that he had trained her in the proper use of bombs, a knife, and a crossbow, she stood no chance against a foglet. As he ran, he chastised himself. He knew he should have kept her further back in the tunnels, away from danger. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. 

He came to the end of the tunnel and saw that he could either go left or right. He scanned the sewer floor to his right, saw both human and foglet tracks, and immediately ran in that direction. All the while listening for any clues. Less than a minute later, he heard the hisses and shrieks of the foglet, but he didn’t hear anything from Evie. He came upon another intersection of tunnels and saw the foglet ahead, bending over a wooden platform, slashing its claws downward, and pulling up planks of wood. He ran directly at the monster and leapt at its back, his sword pulled back to his shoulder. The creature sensed movement behind him and turned, and the monster-slayer plunged his sword straight through the foglet’s chest - the momentum of his leap knocking them both on top of the platform. Despite having a blade through its chest, the monster was not yet dead and tried to claw at Geralt’s face. As the witcher put both arms up to protect himself, he noticed a knife sticking out of the foglet’s cheek. He quickly pulled the knife out and began hammering the creature’s skull over and over with the weapon. Eventually, the foglet’s arms fell slack to its side, but Geralt, in his rage, kept piercing the monster’s head with the blade, each blow punctuated by a frenzied, desperate growl. 

The witcher finally came to his senses and realized the foglet was dead. Breathing heavy, he leapt off its corpse. He looked down into the hole of the damaged platform and saw Evie’s legs. Blood – that looked black in the darkness – covered her trousers. He didn’t see any movement from his wife and his breath caught in his throat. He jumped off the platform, dropped flat on his stomach, and crawled under the platform. He saw that Evie’s eyes were closed, and for a moment he feared she was dead. But then he saw that her lips were moving and that she was whispering to herself. A rush of air exploded from Geralt’s lungs. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been holding his breath.

“Evie? Baby, tell me you’re okay,” he pleaded.

Evie opened her eyes, let out a sob of relief and reached forward for her witcher. 


	25. Chapter 25

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 13

The three Nilfgaardian frigates moved eastward through the fog towards Novigrad. Emhyr noticed on his port side the lighthouse from Crane Cap warning ships of land just ahead, and he nodded his head slowly. Soon, he thought. Very soon.

He then turned to his right, to his second in command. 

“Give the order. Remove them from their crates.”

oOo

Evie stood in the sewers with her trousers down around her ankles. While Geralt knelt in front of her and applied some medicinal ointment to her knees and shins, she asked, “So, after all that, we’re going to find a different way to leave town, right?”

“Why?” he asked, looking up with a tiny smirk on his face. “Pretty sure we killed all the monsters down here. Should be smooth sailing on the way out.”

He saw a touch of fear come to his wife’s eyes so his smirk immediately vanished, and he added, “But, we can play it by ear, okay?”  
  
After the battle against the foglets, Geralt and Evie had both taken health potions, and then the witcher had tended to her injuries. She had a large knot on her forehead and small gash across the bridge of her nose from running into the brick wall. But it was her lower legs about which he was most concerned. The cuts from the foglet’s claws weren’t deep, but he was wary of infection. He’d need to keep a close eye on her injuries. 

After he finished applying the ointment, his eyes began to roam over Evie’s firm, muscular legs, and he ran his hands ever so softly over her skin, causing goosebumps to pop up over her thighs. 

“Witcher?”

“Uh huh?”

“What are you doing?”

He finally looked up, into his wife’s eyes. She saw mischief in his. 

“Just…checking for other injuries. I wish we had time for a full-body, physical exam.” 

“Me, too. It’s been a couple of days since you last gave me one.”

“Yeah,” he said after exhaling deeply. 

He slowly and carefully pulled her trousers back up over her injuries and then further upward, past the curve of her hips and butt. After buckling her belt, Evie looked up to see the witcher standing and slipping out of his body armor. 

“My turn,” he stated.

The shoulder area of his white, cotton undershirt was ripped and soaked red with blood. He pulled the shirt over his head, and Evie sharply sucked in air when she saw the deep gash running down his left shoulder and into his upper arm. The witcher dug around in his satchel and eventually came out with his curved needle and manticore hair. 

As he held them out to his wife, he smiled. “Remember how to do this?”

She gave him a look. “Yes…but can we please not turn this into a habit?”

“I can’t promise you that. Besides, I kinda like it when you take care of me.” 

“Is that right?” she asked, peering into his eyes. He nodded.

“Well, that’s good…cause I like taking care of my brave witcher. Of course, knowing you, you probably consider all of this - getting stitched up - as foreplay,” she said with a smile.

“Wife, as far as I’m concerned, when it comes to you, I consider everything to be foreplay,” he answered with a smirk.

Evie shook her head. “I must be in love,” she said as she stepped up close.

“Why’s that?”

“To think a cheesy line like that is actually cute.” The witcher’s smirk grew a little wider. “That, and despite being in a monster-infested, foul-smelling sewer, I really want you right now.” Evie’s voice had turned a little husky as she brought her face just inches from Geralt’s.

The witcher now wore a full smile. “That’s just the adrenaline and excitement. Your body wants to burn it off, to celebrate being alive. After a contract, I always used to…you know what - never mind.” 

He brought her lips to his and kissed her hard. As he began to undo her belt that she had just buckled, she urgently reached for his, as well. 

“What about your shoulder?” she asked breathlessly, in between kisses.

“It can wait.”

oOo

  
  
Thirty minutes later, the witcher carried stitches in his shoulder and a very satisfied smile on his face. As he and Evie – hand in hand - approached the exit from the sewers, Geralt suddenly stopped and turned to his wife. 

“Last time I was here, Temple Guards were all over the city. Patrolling the streets at all hours of the day. I wasn’t really welcome here then. Probably less so now. So, give me a moment.” 

Geralt took his swords off his back since that would be a dead-giveaway as to what he was. He strapped his steel sword to his hip and covered himself with his cloak. But, this time, he decided to keep the cowl down. He’d learned his lesson in Ban Ard about looking suspicious. Evie rubbed some of Benny’s ointment on his facial scars, and almost instantly, they disappeared. He grabbed his shaded glasses and put those on to conceal his eyes. Finally, he strapped his silver sword around Evie’s waist. 

“You’re just gonna carry it, okay? I don’t expect you to use it. If we run into trouble, use the weapons that I’ve trained you with.”

After getting a nod from Evie, Geralt opened a gate, and the two of them walked out of the sewers and into The Bits, one of the more run-down neighborhoods of Novigrad. The sun had still not yet made its appearance over the horizon, but the darkness in the sky was being chased away by the morning light. 

“Oh…praise Essea,” gasped Evie as she stepped out into the relatively fresh air. 

“I’ll praise him once we’re out of this hell hole.”

Evie nodded and then looked around, but she didn’t recognize where they were.

“How far from the fish market are we?” she asked.

“Ten or fifteen minutes.” He then looked her in the eye. “Just because we’re out of the sewers, don’t think we’re safe. In fact, it’s probably more dangerous up here than down below. Remember, we’re going to do our best to avoid detection, but don’t make it obvious that we’re trying to avoid detection.”

“Right. And just how do I do that?”

“I don’t know. Just…walk casually.”

As they moved along the street that was mostly covered in shadows, Evie looked about. It had been at least five or six years since she’d last set foot in the one-time capital of Redania. But, even in all her previous visits, there were parts of the city that she’d never ventured into. The Bits was certainly one of them. With pigs and other livestock roaming the muddy roads, the smell there wasn’t much better than the sewers that they’d just left. She noticed vagrants curled up under porches and in alleyways and wondered just what events had conspired for them to end up there. Many of the houses she passed had broken windows, and a few were even missing their front doors. The occasional building had what Evie assumed was a single candle burning within, its small flame refracting through a dirtied pane of glass. Luckily, the streets of the ghetto were mostly deserted at that time of the morning. The drunkards and fisstech users had already stumbled home – wherever that may be – to throw up, pass out, and sleep things off until it was time for the next drink or fix. The few pedestrians already up and about were most likely those fortunate enough to be employed in that time of war. She noticed that they all quickly scuttled along the muddy walkways with their eyes downcast. It seemed that they were just as nervous about being out as she was, as if they instinctively knew that the darkness was where the devil most loved to play.

Evie walked slightly behind Geralt since he knew where he was going. As they came around a corner, her body tensed as she noticed three Temple Guards at the far end of the block, walking in their direction. 

“Easy. Just act natural,” whispered Geralt, as if he had read her mind. 

After a few more steps, she felt him tugging on her sleeve.

“This way.”

Evie followed the witcher under an archway and into a narrow alley, which ran behind and between several buildings. The two- to three-story high, stone structures towered over them on both sides blocking out the early morning light. On the backside of the buildings, there were numerous crates stacked about, creating all sorts of dark hidey-holes. Evie’s eyes darted back and forth, on alert for danger. She stepped into a shallow puddle of dirty, brown liquid, the sound of the splash causing her look down. She hoped the puddle was full of nothing but rainwater, but the odor made her doubt that. 

“Whazzat? Waddawah?” 

She jumped at the voice coming from her left, down near her feet. A homeless man, sleeping between two crates, looked at Evie briefly with glassy eyes before lowering his head back down on his arm. 

“Come on,” urged Geralt, gently grasping Evie’s arm. 

They quickly exited the alley without any more surprises, and as she stepped out into the connecting street, it seemed to her that they’d just walked into a completely different city. The cobblestone streets were free of garbage, livestock, and feces and were lined with beautiful flowers instead of sleeping vagrants. She instantly recognized the area and knew that they were very close to Hierarch Square. They came to an intersection where they could only go left or right, and Evie felt Geralt nudge her to the left, away from the square, and then, suddenly, he grabbed her hand, stopping her in her tracks. Down the way, near one of the city’s many temples to the Eternal Fire were several more guards, along with some witch hunters. 

“Damn it,” she heard him whisper. “Come on.” 

They quickly did an about-face and headed back towards Hierarch Square. As they followed the road around a small curve to the left, the square came into view, with colorful flags and banners hanging overhead, snapping in the morning breeze. But right before actually entering the plaza, she felt Geralt nudge her into a wide but short alley to her left. They quickly came to a high wooden fence covered with elegant-looking drapery. Geralt tried the knob on the door of the fence but found it locked. He quickly swiveled his head around as he suddenly heard both men’s voices and the unmistakable clinking sound of guards wearing metal armor coming their way. He immediately turned his left shoulder towards the door and pressed hard against it. An instant later, Evie heard wood snap as the door opened, and they stepped through and shut the door just a few seconds before two Temple Guards appeared. Geralt pushed Evie to one side of the doorway and brought a finger up to his lips in the universal sign for silence while at the same time unsheathing his knife. 

“Didja ‘ear that?” 

“Wha?”

Evie could clearly hear the two Redanians on the other side of the fence. 

“Thought I ‘eard somethin’ over there.”

“For Fire’s sake, Ollie. Ya always think you’s hearin’ sumpin’.”

“Well, I’m gonna check.”

“Ollie, our watch is jus’ endin’. Don’t go lookin’ for trouble.”

“It’ll jus’ be a sec.”

Evie’s eyes widened as she heard the tell-tale metallic sound of the man’s armor coming near. She looked at Geralt on the other side of the door from her. He stood just a foot away from the threshold, his weapon at the ready. With each step that the soldier took, she heard the ominous clinking noise getting closer. She quickly looked down at the door knob, then to Geralt, and back to the door. 

“The door looks busted,” said Ollie.

Evie held her breath and quietly unsheathed her knife.

The door slowly moved open about a foot and then stopped. She couldn’t see what was happening on the other side of the door, but she heard Geralt whisper, “You see nothing but a mangy, gray dog. Now, close the door and leave.” 

A second later, the door shut.

“Ah, ‘twas just a mangy dog.”

“Told ya it was nothin’, Ollie. Let’s git to the barracks.”

Evie let out a breath, her heart still thumping fast in her chest.

As Geralt led Evie across on open area with a large stage to the right, she whispered, “Axii?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were just going to kill him.”

“Knew you wouldn’t want me to.”

She reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him to a stop. 

“What is it?”

She had a smile on her face. “Have I told you today how much I love you?”

He gave a small smile back. “No.”

“I do.” And then she kissed him – very hard.

The witcher finally broke the kiss. “Wife, be careful how you kiss me. Don’t start something you’re not willing to finish.”

“Who said I’m not? I still feel really randy.”

The witcher shook his head but had a smirk on his face. “You are the best wife ever. Come on.”

Before Evie could respond, he pulled her quickly to the backstage area, through a door in another high fence, and finally out onto a second-floor, open-air platform holding another shrine to the Eternal Flame. Evie looked down over the platform’s railing and saw a narrow canal running through the city. 

“Why didn’t we just go through the square?” Evie whispered as they descended the steps. 

“Didn’t want to risk it. Last time I was here, it was teeming with un-friendlies. Let’s go. Almost there.”

Two minutes later, when Geralt and Evie arrived at Novigrad’s fish market, it was still relatively empty. During the summer months, early morning was one of the best times for fishing, and therefore, most fishermen were still out on their boats at that time of day. The few merchants that were already setting up their stalls were selling other types of goods – furs, ink wells, candles, tools, and other junk. The fish market wouldn’t get truly busy until an hour or so after sunrise. The two of them walked slowly around the empty fish stands until they saw a blacksmith sign just above the quiet shop. Even though Evie and Claude had divorced almost a decade ago, they had seen each other a few times over the years. About five years ago, they’d worked together at an archeological site in Nazair. It was then that he’d mentioned that he and his family lived in the fish market of Novigrad, two doors down from a blacksmith. Evie had remembered because Claude had joked that his wife must truly love him to put up with both the smell from the fish market and the constant metal-on-metal clanking of the blacksmith’s hammer pounding his anvil all day. 

Eventually, Evie found the right place.

“This is it,” she stated, standing outside the front door of a two-story building. To the right of the door was a small wooden sign with the name “Debussy” carved into it. 

After a moment, Geralt asked, “So…you gonna knock?”

Evie peered at him with a nervous look on her face. “Never thought I’d be introducing my ex-husband to my current husband.”

“Yeah…life is messy. Want me to wait over there while you talk to him?”

“Never. You and I are a team. We stick together no matter how messy life gets,” she answered and then touched his face. 

The two stared into each other’s eyes and smiled warmly. 

“Thanks, Evie.”

“For what?”

“For…being my best friend.”

“Always, Geralt.” And then the two kissed softly. 

As they pulled back from the kiss, Geralt shook his head. 

“Damn, now I’m the one who’s randy again.” 

Evie smiled. “Tonight?”

“For sure.”

“Good. Now, let’s do this.”

She exhaled deeply, turned to the door and knocked solidly three times. 

They eventually heard movement coming from within, including the cries of what sounded like a baby. The door opened to reveal a short woman with dish-water blonde hair pulled up into a bun and holding a fussy infant on her hip. The woman’s eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked haggard. 

“Hello, Celeste,” greeted Evie. “Is Claude home?”

Suddenly, the woman’s eyes went wide with recognition.

“You!” she screamed. “How dare you come here? This is all your fault!” 

The heads of the few merchants setting up their stalls in the fish market all turned towards the hysterical woman. Geralt quickly looked back behind him and then cast an Axii at the woman.

“Calm down, and invite us inside,” he ordered. 

Suddenly, her angry face went slack.

“Please, do come in,” she said in a monotone.

oOo

Outside the Debussy home, on the opposite side of the fish market, a soldier sat in the shadows, disguised as a vagrant, doing his best not to doze off. A woman screaming somewhere nearby startled him awake, and when he finally came to, he noticed a couple entering the archeologist’s home. Suddenly, he was wide awake, and he jabbed an elbow into the ribs of the man sleeping next to him. 

“Wake up, Hans,” he hissed. “Alert the captain. A woman just showed up.”

oOo

  
Geralt immediately pushed Evie inside and shut the door behind him. The first thing he noticed were stairs off to his right. 

“Who else is here?” he asked.

“Jordy is upstairs, still asleep.”

The witcher nodded. “Let’s have a seat. We gotta talk.”

He moved them all to a nearby wooden table with chairs. Like the rest of the furniture and cookware in the first-floor kitchen/dining area, the table and chairs looked old and worn. Despite that, the entire place looked clean and well-tended. 

Geralt cast an Axii at the crying baby and then turned his eyes to Celeste.

“You said something about this being Evie’s fault. What do you mean?”

“Radovid’s men came and asked Claude about her.”

“When was this?”

“A couple of days ago.”

“What did they ask?”

“Questions about her. When he’d seen her last. If she’d written him.”

Geralt knew, based on her reaction at the door, that there was more to the story.

“What happened to Claude?”

“They took him. He told them that he hadn’t seen her in years. Hadn’t heard from her in years, but I guess they didn’t believe him. They confiscated all of his books and papers, and they put in him manacles and took him away.”

Geralt heard Evie exhale deeply. When he looked over, he saw that she was shaking her head back and forth. Guilt was clearly on her face.

“Do you know where they took him?” asked the witcher.

“I don’t know for sure. They didn’t say. But, after they left, I took Jordy and Oleera next to door to Mrs. Jenks, and then I followed them. It wasn’t hard, at least until they got to the gate. I didn’t dare follow them beyond that.”

“Where do you think they were heading?”

“Tretogor. When I was following them, I overhead them say something about Tretogor.”

After a moment of silence, Evie turned to Geralt. There was both desperation and panic in her eyes.

“They took Claude…because of me. Geralt, this doesn’t make any sense. How is Radovid getting his information? His men were waiting for us in the mountains. Then, they somehow knew about Claude. I don’t understand.”

Before he answered, he cast another Axii at Celeste and then told her to go upstairs. He then looked at his wife.

“Who knows you best, Evie? Who would know that you might turn to Claude if you needed help?”

“Maybe…my friends from my time at the Academy…or my family. Are you saying one of them would betray me? That they’re working for Radovid?”

“I’m not saying that. They may not even realize that they’re giving out information about you. If I was trying to understand best how you think, I’d seek out your family and friends. Cozy up to them in a tavern. Start swapping life stories. Build a relationship with them. Maybe one of his spies is tight with one of your friends or family members and they’re not even aware.”

“Well, my only two, living family members that aren’t already with us are my brother Abelard and Uncle Malek.”

“When did you last see Abelard?”

She shook her head. “Four years ago, maybe? Several years before I took the tome, for sure.” 

Now, Geralt was shaking his head. 

“What is it?” she asked.

“The timing on all of this. It’s too coincidental. Even if Radovid’s spies are using information from Abelard or one of your friends, it’s too much of coincidence that they grabbed Claude just days before we got here. Think about it, you stole the tome two years ago. Why would Radovid wait until now to come question Claude?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he – his spies – just found out about me and the tome recently.”

“Yeah, maybe. Well, we’re not going to-”  
  
Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the front door slowly opening. Standing in the doorway, backlit by the morning sunlight, was a giant-sized man. Even though he wasn’t wearing his typical black armor, Evie recognized him immediately, her eyes growing wide. Geralt already had his sword out before the man had even taken a step into the room. After slowly shutting the door behind him, the man’s ice-blue eyes took in his surroundings and then, finally, stopped on Evie. 

“Hello, Evangeline. It’s been many years,” said Malek. “We have much to discuss.”


	26. Chapter 26

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 14

Timataal stood frustrated at one of the fish market’s stands, pretending to be interested in the merchant’s wares. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Malek walk into the Debussy house all alone. The rest of Malek’s men – and Fringilla – were scattered about the fish market doing their best to blend in and look inconspicuous. It had taken them several days to locate the residence of Evie’s ex-husband, and they’d been keeping it under surveillance ever since. 

Despite Timataal’s protestations, Malek had insisted on speaking to his niece privately. 

“It won’t be private,” Timataal had argued. “He’s in there with her. You’re good, Mal, but you’re no witcher.” 

“Thank you for the vote of confidence. Nevertheless...I need to speak with her alone.”

The shorter man slowly shook his head. “Alright. It’s your funeral. I got dibs on your horse.”

Malek smiled. “Right. I’d love to see you try to mount him. My stirrups come up to your chin.”

Timataal shook his head again but now had a smirk on his face. “Don’t die, asshole.”

oOo

Malek stood – empty handed - on the opposite side of the small, dining table from Geralt and Evie. The witcher had taken a step to his left, most of his body now in front of his wife’s. And though he appeared at ease, standing unnaturally still and casually holding his steel sword down at his side, Malek was not fooled. The monster-slayer’s eyes were boring into his, anticipating the first movement of danger. Malek knew that he’d have to tread carefully if he wanted a peaceful parley. After he had finally taken the mutant’s full measure, he shifted his eyes from Geralt. He looked over the witcher’s shoulder to address his niece.

“You look well, Evangeline. It’s good to see you safe.”  
  
“As you, Uncle. How’d you know I was coming here, to Claude’s?”

Malek shrugged. “A little bit of luck. A bit of an educated guess. Does it really matter?”

“Yes, actually it does, but I suppose that’s all you’re going to say about it, right?” 

Malek answered with a single nod of the head. 

“So…then, why are you are here exactly? To take me back?”

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

She shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Malek squinted his eyes at the historian.

“You know, I have never done anything to you for you to mistrust me. Nevertheless, regardless of your suspicions, I’m here for the book that you stole. Nothing else.” 

Evie laughed. “So, I give you the book, and you just let us go?”

“Yes. I’ll tell Emhyr that you both died in a skirmish. You’d, of course, have to leave the Continent, never to return, but you’d live.”

“I have a hard time believing you’d flat-out lie to the Emperor. You’re Emhyr’s man, through and through.”

“Evangeline, doubt me if you want, but I mean you no harm. I swear on your mother’s memory…I have no desire to see you hurt in any way.” 

A strange looked crossed Evie’s face. 

“If you mean me no harm, then why did you ever involve me in this in the first place? You personally came to my home and asked me to the capital to study the book.”  
  
“I asked you to come because you are great historian…and I wanted to see you. We are family.” Then, Malek smiled. “Of course, had I known you were going to steal the book, trust me, I never would have bothered. But I shouldn’t be surprised. You always were impetuous…and stubborn…just like your mother. Regardless, you must give me the book if I am going to protect you.”   
  
Evie furrowed her brow at Malek’s second mention of her mother. 

“Thank you for your concern, but I’ve got all the protection I need. This is Geralt…my husband.”

A look of surprise flashed across Malek’s face, but he quickly composed himself.

“My congratulations to you both. I truly wish you happiness. And all the more reason to now simply hand the book over…and then go on an extended honeymoon…far away.” 

The witcher caught himself slightly nodding his head. While Geralt was very wary of the large man and didn’t trust a word coming from his mouth, he had to admit that he did actually agree with the man’s last idea.

“Why does Emhyr even want it?” Evie asked. “It’s just full of Aen Seidhe myths and fairy tales.”

The small smile returned to Malek’s face. “Nice try, but we both know why the book is important and why he wants it. You wouldn’t have stolen it, otherwise.”

Evie shook her head, disappointment and confusion clearly on her face. 

“I don’t understand you, Uncle Malek. I’ve always looked up to you. Partly because I thought you always hated bullies. So, how can you serve Emhyr? He’s the biggest bully of all. He’s nothing but a war-monger. He’s invaded the North twice – unprovoked - in the last decade.”   
  
“I don’t serve Emhyr, Evangeline. I serve order.”

Her brow furrowed. “You serve _order?_ What the hell does that even mean? You are part of the Emperor’s war-machine. And war is not order. You serve chaos and death. You know he won’t be happy until the entire Continent is under his thumb.” 

“It’s true that he and I both want the North under Nilfgaardian rule, but our motivations are quite different. For him it is about power, for me it is about peace.”

“Peace? You support the invasion of the North because you want peace? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re a student of history, Evangeline. So, tell me…how many of the duchies and provinces under Nilfgaardian rule have revolted in the last…thirty years?”

“None.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Easy. Fear. One word about independence and they’d by crushed under Emhyr’s black boot.”

Malek shook his head. 

“No, Evangeline. They don’t revolt because they have no need or want to. Being a part of our Empire brings peace to their lands. But we bring more than that. We bring prosperity. Sure, there may be some ‘patriots’ who refuse to be happy living under any flag but their own, but most people? Most people couldn’t care less who actually sits on the throne and rules. They just want live in a land of law and order, where they feel safe in their homes, where jobs can be found, where food is plenty, where their kin aren’t beaten and murdered, their women aren’t raped. And the Empire, while not perfect, offers that better than any other realm. You want me to believe that the North was a peaceful land and that our invasion somehow destroyed that? That’s a fallacy, and you know it. Kaedwen and Aedirn have been at war for centuries. Temeria just went through a civil war. And the less said of Radovid’s atrocities the better. The Northern kings have killed ten times the number of Nordlings than Nilfgaard ever has. The North is a land where anarchy reigns, and we can bring it much needed order. We can give the citizens – this entire continent - peace and stability.”

“Well, silly me. I didn’t realize just how altruistic your invasion actually was. Who knew that you and Emhyr have the Nordlings’ best interest at heart? Good luck getting them to believe that.”

“You mock, but we won’t have to make them believe it. They’ll see it for themselves when they’re finally living in peace under our rule. You obviously don’t agree with this war, but order doesn’t just happen. It’s the way of both man and nature to devolve into chaos. Gardens, unattended, don’t stay pretty. They grow wild, quickly overrun with weeds and snakes and a sundry of pests that’ll devour all. So, order is costly…and sometimes painful. You have to pull weeds and kill all of the vermin in order for the flowers to bloom. And, to me, that’s what this war is…us pulling weeds…which brings us back to the book. If it can lead us to a weapon that will allow us to end this war sooner, that will, ultimately, permit more lives to be saved in the long run, then wouldn’t you want us to have it?”

When Evie didn’t say anything, Malek continued. “It’s better in my hands than Radovid’s, right? Because he’s now after you and the book, too. You are aware of that, correct?”

“Yes, we’re aware. How is it that you are?”

“I just know.”

“Right…you have eyes and ears everywhere.”

Malek shifted his focus to Geralt.

“Witcher, perhaps you can help Evangeline see reason.”

The White Wolf stood still and silent for several moments, just staring at the southerner. 

“I think you missed your calling, Malek,” Geralt finally responded. “You should have been a politician or maybe even clergy. Very persuasive little speech, and such a poetic analogy. You almost had me convinced, except for one problem…you seem to think that you’re the gardener. That you have the right to decide what should stay and what should go. But, as far as I’m concerned, Emhyr…Nilfgaard…you…you’re just another one of the weeds.”

Malek sighed. “I’m disappointed that’s your view, Witcher. I had heard that you were…a practical sort.”

“That so?”

“Yes. I know that you, too, have even worked – if not for – then, at least, with Emhyr when it suited your own aims. Just last year you fought alongside Nilfgaardians to defeat the Wild Hunt. Isn’t that right?”

“What of it?”

“Just that, perhaps, you and I aren’t so different. We’re both willing to partner with those we may find…undesirable for a greater cause.” 

The witcher shook his head. “You and I are nothing alike. I was simply trying to save my daughter…and I would have done so with or without Emhyr’s help. I never partnered with him.”

“And I am simply trying to save the citizens of this continent from tyranny. And regardless of how you want to label it, just as I am using his resources for my aims, you did use his spies’ intelligence and his naval and armed forces against the Wild Hunt to save your daughter. I think it just galls you that you had to.”

Geralt eventually nodded. “Fair enough…but there’s one big difference between you and me. I let people make their own choices. Your supreme leader ordered me to bring Ciri to him once I found her, but I refused. I let her decide what she wanted to do. But here you are, trying to force your own niece to do something against her will. Just like you’re forcing the Nordlings to submit to Nilfgaardian rule against their will. That’s the definition of tyranny. Good luck rationalizing that one away, bootlicker.”

Malek sighed and turned to Evie. “I can see why you married him.”

“I trust him with my life, which is more than I can say for you.”

A look of sadness crossed Malek’s face. 

“I shall wait outside…with my men. I’ll give you ten minutes. Please make the reasonable choice.”   
  
Suddenly, Geralt cast an Axii Sign at Malek, and the large man’s eyes glazed over.

“Yeah…well, here’s my choice. I’m just going to kill you and be done with it,” said the witcher as he started toward Malek. 

“Geralt, no!” Evie reached out quickly and grabbed the witcher’s arm. “I may not agree with him, but he’s still family, and I… I still love him. Please don’t kill him.”

“Evie, he’s not going to let this go,” said Geralt, not even bothering to hide the frustration in his voice. “Any more than Emhyr will. So, we either give him the book or we kill him. Those are the two choices. Well, three choices…we could just destroy the damn book so that no one can have it. But what we can’t do is keep the book and let him go free.”

“Witcher!” A voice came from out in the fish market. 

Evie and Geralt quickly swiveled their heads towards the front door and then carefully approached a front window of the house. 

Looking out into the market, the White Wolf sighed deeply. 

“Son of a bitch. This has to be the most well-known, covert mission ever. Did someone send out invitations?” 

oOo

Fringilla Vigo stood on the other side of the fish market from the Debussy house. In the last twenty minutes, her mind had been consumed by a whirlwind of thoughts. She wanted to believe that she felt nothing – neither affection nor hate – for the white-haired witcher, but if that was the case, then why did her heart start racing upon seeing him again. And she wasn’t even going to attempt to label the emotion she felt when he and the historian kissed on the doorstep. And as if that weren’t enough, Malek had entered the house alone. She knew that, for the good of the Empire, she should hope that the witcher struck down Malek and escaped. But what she knew and what she felt suddenly seemed to be at odds with one another. 

“Damn it all to hell,” she thought, shaking her head. “Why can’t I just be like the rest of the sorceresses of the Lodge and like every man walking the planet? They have no issues whatsoever sleeping with people and not forming any kind of emotional attachments. What is wrong with me? I am obviously not cut out for this type of spying.”

The sorceress was suddenly brought out of her thoughts by the sight and sounds of dozens and dozens of red and silver clad soldiers rushing into the fish market from all avenues. Within just a few minutes, there seemed to be at least a hundred or more armed-men facing and surrounding the Debussy house. Men with large shields knelt side by side along the front. Just behind them, soldiers thrust their long spears over the top of the shields, and in a third row, stood archers with bows and crossbows at the ready. 

Behind them all, stood a man in gleaming armor, his blood-red cape billowing slightly in the morning breeze. 

“Witcher!” the officer-in-charge yelled. “You are surrounded! You and the woman come out – unarmed, or we will come in for you!”

oOo

“There’s gotta be an entire company of men out there,” growled the witcher. “Even I can’t defeat that many.”

Geralt grabbed Malek by the back of the collar and dragged him towards the window.

“Is this your doing?”

“Of course not,” answered Malek, no longer under the effect of the Axii. “I don’t want Radovid to get the book. Nor, would I ever put Evangeline in danger.”

“Then help me think of something because right now we are buggered,” replied the witcher before he turned and started quickly piling the little bit of furniture that was available toward the front door. He then began scanning the floor. 

“What are you looking for?” asked Evie, her voice high and trembling.

“A latch. Some of these houses have cellars connected to the sewers.”

“Do you see anything?”

He shook his head and looked into Evie’s eyes. 

“Nothing.” 

Then, he turned and ran up the stairs. 

“Witcher! This is your last chance! You and the woman have one minute to surrender!”

Evie watched Geralt disappear up the stairs and then turned towards Malek. 

“What do we do?”

oOo

Timataal, Fringilla, and the rest of Malek’s men had quickly fled the market upon the Redanian soldiers’ arrival. Easily blending in with the large crowd of Novigrad citizens that were now gathered, they huddled together near the bridge than spanned the canal. Both questions and rumors went up and down the ranks of the citizenry as to just what was transpiring. 

“Any ideas – that won’t get us all killed?” asked Timataal in a hushed tone, eyeing his men.

All the Nilfgaardians peered at one another before finally turning back to Timataal. No one said anything, just shaking their heads.

“What about you?” he asked Fringilla.

All eyes went to the sorceress.

oOo

_Novigrad Harbor_

“Nilfgaardians!” 

“Black Ones!”

The shouts were going up and down the docks of Novigrad as the three large ships, with giant black sails, emblazoned with a golden sun, appeared through the morning mist. 

Emperor Emhyr stood on the deck of the middle ship, with his back to the shore, and looked at the five monstrous creatures in front of him. As he craned his neck to look upward into their lifeless eyes, he held the two magical discs in his hands. He lowered his eyes to the metal objects, breathed in deeply, and pressed them together. He twisted them, until he heard a click. Suddenly, he heard a low humming noise around him, and the hair on his arms stood on end as the air crackled with energy. He looked up, and as he saw the creatures coming to life, he could feel the magical power radiating off of them. He quickly moved behind the magical constructs and then glanced over to the other ships to see that the monsters there were also active. 

He remembered Philippa’s instructions regarding giving simple orders. He brought the discs up to his mouth and spoke.

“Go forth, and destroy all.”

Immediately, the five monsters on his ship disappeared with a powerful whooshing sound. His eyes scanned the shoreline back and forth. Suddenly, the creatures appeared a hundred feet in the air and, like meteors, rained down towards the city below. Even standing on his ship well off-shore, he could feel the vibrations as the monsters crashed down into the docks, warehouses, and streets of Novigrad. As he watched one of the monsters belch forth a massive flame of fire and set the walls of a warehouse ablaze, for the first time in weeks, a genuine smile crossed the Emperor’s face. That is, until her heard frantic shouts coming from the ship on his starboard side. He looked over and saw that there was one creature still aboard that ship, which was being quickly engulfed in flames. 

Emhyr brought the disc up to his mouth again and shouted, “Attack the city! Attack the city!”

His orders weren’t understood by the lone monster or else they simply weren’t obeyed because the creature continued to breathe fire across the ship’s sails and wooden deck. It then charged ahead into the forward mast and began pounding away at it with heavy fists. He watched as the sailors on the ship jumped overboard and began swimming for safety. As the ship began to sink, the monster disappeared. Emhyr’s eyes went wide, looking up in the sky directly above him. He was waiting with dread for the monster to crash down onto the deck of his own ship and start wreaking havoc, but out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the creature suddenly appear in the Novigrad warehouse district, and he exhaled deeply.

The Emperor then shouted at the ship’s captain. “Get us to safety! Now!” 

  
  
oOo

Evie shrieked and jumped backward from a bright flash and loud bang. Fringilla stepped out of a portal, and it immediately vanished behind her. Her eyes quickly found Malek.

“Malek, we need to go, now.” 

She waved her arms about with a quick chant, and suddenly a new portal appeared in the small room. 

“Evangeline, come with us. Please.” Malek’s eyes pierced Evie’s.

“Not without Geralt.” 

Her stare was just as fierce. She was thankful that she was across the room from her uncle, near the stairs, just in case he made a move for her. 

Malek’s jaws clenched. 

“Witcher! Let’s go. We have a portal!” yelled Malek upward, toward the second floor. 

Almost immediately, Geralt descended the stairs with a small boy in his arms and Celeste, holding her baby, right behind him. Without a word, he handed the boy to Fringilla and then pushed Celeste through the portal. 

“Come on, Malek. I can only keep it open a few more seconds,” urged Fringilla right before turning and entering the portal herself. 

“I’m not going without you, Evangeline,” Malek stated, while staring into her eyes.

“Like hell,” growled the witcher, who quickly signed an Aard in Malek’s direction and blasted him through the portal just before it closed. 

Evie quickly turned to her husband. 

“I hope you have a plan,” she said, now biting her lower lip.

Suddenly, Geralt raised his head and starting looking around with wide eyes. 

“Do you hear that?” he asked as he ran to the front window.

oOo

Outside, in the middle of the fish market, the eyes of everyone – including the Redanian soldiers – began shifting towards the docks. Along with plumes of smoke, screams of fear and agony were coming from that direction. Suddenly, falling from the sky, a giant creature landed right in the middle of the Redanian formation. Several soldiers were literally crushed into the dirt while dozens of others were flung through the air by the impact. Immediately, chaos ensued within the fish market as citizens and soldiers alike fled in all directions, accompanied by shouts of terror. 

The creature breathed out flames and several merchant’s stands and fleeing soldiers caught fire. The monster quickly rushed forward and grabbed a burning body in each hand. He forcefully threw one to the ground, shattering virtually every bone and internal organ, killing the man instantly. The creature violently tossed the other flaming corpse to the side, towards a building, just before rampaging towards the mass of humanity that was trying to escape. 

oOo

“Duck!” yelled Geralt, and he immediately pushed Evie to the floor, protecting her with both his body and a Quen dome an instant before a burning corpse smashed into the front window. 

“What the hell is that thing?” shouted Evie.

Geralt peeked his head back up towards the window. The creature was still in the market, now breathing fire at the businesses and homes on the other side. The witcher had never seen anything exactly like it. It looked like a cross between several different magical constructs that he’d come across while on the Path. It had the shape of a gargoyle, including the wings on its back, but the composition of the body looked like that of a golem. Though, at twelve feet tall, it was bigger than any gargoyle or golem he’d ever seen. Nor, had he ever known either of those constructs to have the ability to breathe fire. So, it apparently had some attributes of a fire elemental, too. Whatever it was exactly, it was clearly magical. He knew that something like that could never be birthed or hatched. 

“It’s trouble,” he answered as he ducked back down below the window and grabbed Evie’s hand. “Upstairs.” 

Geralt quickly led Evie up the stairs to the second floor, and upon arriving there, they immediately noticed smoke and flames billowing out of the wooden walls facing the fish market. 

“Damn it! Give me one second,” said the witcher as he threw Evie’s cloak open and started unbuckling his silver sword from her. Less than a minute later, he dropped his cloak to the floor and had both swords on his back.

They moved to a window on the backside of the house and could see the Golden Sturgeon tavern across the road. It, too, was already in flames. The witcher peered down into the road below, and upon seeing it clear, he cast at Aard and blew out the window panes. He unsheathed his steel sword and knocked out the jagged shards that were still embedded in their grooves. He re-sheathed his sword, grabbed the window ledge and jumped out the window while still hanging on. He looked down to the ground below to see that his boots were about ten feet above the road. He kicked off the side of stone wall and twisted his body a quarter of a turn. As his feet hit the ground, he bent his knees and rolled forward. He was quickly up and back below the window. He saw Evie poking her head out. 

“Evie, jump! I’ll catch you!” he yelled up at her, his arms out if front of him, palms up. 

She looked down at the witcher and shook her head back and forth before exhaling deeply. And then she leapt. A second after he caught her safely in his arms, the ground behind them shook as another one of the monsters charged down the road towards them. Geralt saw the creature stop and take in a deep breath. 

“Get down!” he yelled to Evie, as he covered her body with his own while simultaneously casting a Quen dome around them both. Flames of fire completely enveloped them but the shield held on for just long enough. As soon as the flames ceased, the witcher cancelled the Quen dome and tossed a dimeritium bomb at the monster. Just as the bomb exploded against the creature’s chest, Geralt and Evie were up and sprinting towards Hierarch Square. The witcher wasn’t sure how effective the dimeritium would be in interfering with the strange monster’s magic, but he just needed for it to be long enough so that the two could make their escape. 

Geralt and Evie ran into the main square and found nothing but pandemonium. A monster was standing at the southeast corner of the square, breathing fire and tossing people about like rag dolls. Novigradians were running in every direction, most screaming at the top of their lungs. 

Seeing that the half-gargoyle, half-golem was blocking the eastern exit of the square, Geralt quickly turned to Evie.

“We’ll head to the northern exit,” he yelled as he pointed to the opposite side of the square. “If we get separated, run that way.”

Keeping to the western side of the square, he navigated his way through the people running in his direction with his left hand, his right hand grasping firmly to Evie’s. He led them along the edge of the square, staying underneath a protective overhang. They came to the local bookstore at the northeast corner of the plaza and hid behind a stone column. It was then that the magical creature charged to the center of the square, snatching a fleeing citizen in each hand. He slammed both bodies to the ground and then breathed out fire on both of them. Geralt poked his head around the corner of the bookstore and looked north towards Dijkstra’s bathhouse. He cursed as he saw another monster that way, causing total destruction of the buildings and people around it. He and Evie were starting to run out of options. He swiveled his head back to his right, and a nearby, three-story building caught his eye.

“Let’s go!” urged the witcher.

The two of them rushed out from behind the stone column and began running for the steps of The Kingfisher Inn. The witcher’s eyes stayed on the gargolem the entire time. Just as he and Evie made it to bottom of the steps leading up to the tavern’s front door, the monster noticed them, let out a loud roar, and charged in their direction.

“Go! Go!” yelled the monster-slayer, as he pushed Evie up the stairs. 

He knew that he didn’t have another dimeritium bomb on his bandolier, so he immediately grabbed a Northern Wind and backhand tossed it at the rampaging monster. The bomb exploded and froze the gargolem just a few feet from the front edge of the stairs. It stopped the monster just long enough for Evie to make her way through the open door of the inn. As Geralt turned his back on the gargolem and continued up the steps, he signed a Quen - which definitely saved his life, for just a moment later, the monster swung a massive fist forward, smashing into the witcher’s back and slamming him into the front, stone wall of the tavern. The heavy blow shattered the Quen shield, which knocked the gargolem backward and momentarily disoriented it, as well. Geralt tried scrambling to his feet, but the monster’s punch had left him a bit groggy. Evie looked back to see him stumbling through the door. She ran back towards him as she heard the monster bellow loudly again. She pulled her husband across the threshold and slammed the door shut just as the gargolem breathed out heavy flames. 

As the front door of the inn caught fire and burned behind them, the witcher shook his head slightly - as if to gather his bearings - and then looked at his wife. 

“Thanks…come on.”  
  
He hurriedly led Evie around the long, wooden tables of the tavern to a doorway just left of the stage. He grabbed the handle, only to find that the door was locked. Suddenly, the front wall of the Kingfisher exploded as the gargolem smashed its way into the interior. Geralt instantly turned back towards the locked door and kicked it open. He immediately saw that someone had come up with the same idea as him since the hidden passage down to the sewers was already open. The monster shattered tables and chairs as it charged towards its prey. Geralt grabbed Evie and pulled her down the steps to safety just as the gargolem smashed its way into the small room, stone and mortar flying through the air. 

As the two of them ran across the large, basement storeroom, the witcher grabbed a torch out of a wall sconce and lit it with Igni. After handing her the torch, he then led her over to a grate that led into the sewers. 

“I know you don’t want to go through the sewers again,” he said to his wife, “but… better down here than up there.”

Just then, they heard another roar from the gargolem, and the ground above them shook, dust and dirt falling down into their hair. 

Her eyes jumped upward and then quickly back down to Geralt’s. 

“Agreed. I’ll be right behind you.” 

oOo

Lydial, Benny, and the rest were all standing, with their mouths agape. They had been hiding in the woods east of town near the crematorium, but now, they were out in an open clearing, watching as the city of Novigrad went up in flames. Black smoke filled the morning sky, and hundreds of residents, soldiers, and temple guards were fleeing the city through the nearby Oxenfurt Gate. 

“You think this is because of Geralt?” asked Barcain

“Can’t be,” answered Lydial. “Even he can’t do this much damage, right?”

“You obviously haven’t known him for very long,” replied Roche. 

“What should we do?” asked Ves.

“Well, what we _don’t_ do is go charging in, Ves. We stick with the plan and wait for them here,” said Roche. “At least, for a bit more. The chances of us finding them in that mayhem is next to nothing.”

The look on Ves’ face made it clear she didn’t agree, but Roche was used to that. What he wasn’t accustomed to was seeing someone on their knees praying, as Lydial was now doing, but he nodded his head.

“Yeah…praying to the gods wouldn’t hurt, either.”

oOo

“Open up another portal, _right now_ ,” ordered Malek, glaring at Fringilla.

“No,” she answered calmly. “Entering that city is suicide. If you want to kill yourself, fine, but you won’t get my help.” 

Finally, events were going the sorceress’ way – Malek was safe, but he was also without the book, and she wasn’t about to do anything to jeopardize either outcome. 

While the two of them were standing outside of the Seven Cats Inn arguing, Celeste stood gawking at the destruction of Novigrad. Like their mother, her children were both in tears, her son hugging her leg while she held the baby close to her shoulder. 

“I’m not going to sit here doing nothing while my men die in that inferno.”

“They should be here shortly,” responded Fringilla. “I told them to ride this way before I even cast the first portal.”

That news seemed to placate Malek, and he then turned back to gaze at the burning city. 

“Evangeline,” he whispered.

oOo

_Tretogor_

Radovid the Stern, current King of Redania, had many flaws, but an inability to see the big picture was not one of them. It was what had allowed him to always be one step of ahead of Emperor Emhyr and the Nilfgaardian generals’ plans for invasion. His use of Redania’s scientists and engineers to counteract the enemy’s use of magic had been absolutely revolutionary. However, he was still a bit confused by the Black Ones’ apparent retreat from along the southern shores of the Pontar River. He didn’t believe for a second that they were simply packing up and heading home. Unfortunately, the scouts that he had ordered to cross the river to find the now-missing Nilfgaardian forces had never returned. That was, in fact, the third scouting party that had not returned in the last week, which was making the king quite irritable and very paranoid.

At the moment, he stood in the middle of the war room in his palace. As was his custom, he stared intently at an enormous, topographical map of the northern part of the Continent that was laid out on top of a banquet-sized table. Small wooden figures – like chess pieces representing both his and the enemy forces – were positioned at various locations on the map. His eyes scanned back and forth over the map, searching for areas of vulnerability, where Emhyr just might be tempted to attack. The majority of his troops were along the entire length of the Pontar River, but he had also amassed some near the western coast, as well, particularly in the city of Novigrad. A week ago, after receiving the news of Nilfgaard’s retreat, he had pulled a thousand of his troops along the Pontar back towards Tretogor. He hated to admit that he still wasn’t sure what Emhyr was planning, but he wanted to be able to deploy those thousand men quickly wherever they were needed to reinforce his lines. 

King Radovid was brought out of his thoughts by a frantic voice emanating from near his hand. 

“….…attacked…are burn…we ne-…” The words were being drowned out by yelling and screaming.

The garbled sound was coming from a metal, circular-shaped box that could fit in the Redanian ruler’s palm. Keira Metz had approached Radovid over a year ago, hoping to ingratiate herself with the king. She had mistakenly believed that the Redanian monarch gave a fig about a potential cure for a deadly disease. However, he had been intrigued when she mentioned the unique capabilities of small box, which she called a Xenovox. He had immediately seen the incredible, military advantages that the box could offer, for in war, many times, accurate and timely information was the difference between victory and defeat. Once his engineers inspected the communication device and assured Radovid that they could recreate it – and once he was confident the sorceress held no other valuable knowledge – he’d ordered her execution. It was through this box that he had spoken to Captain Krill, commander of his Novigrad garrison, less than an hour before. Krill had informed him that the Nilfgaardian historian had been seen in the city’s fish market. 

“Krill, repeat yourself! Captain!” ordered Radovid after pressing a small button on the device. He then released the button and listened. 

Suddenly, the king’s eyes widened as he heard a man’s agonizing scream followed by a monstrous roar - and then silence. Radovid held the box in front at his face, staring at it for several long moments, but no other sounds came. He slowly walked to a nearby desk where more than a dozen other Xenovoxes were resting in labeled cubby holes, and he placed the box in his hand in the appropriate, empty spot. 

He stood there in thought for a moment before grabbing another Xenovox from a cubby hole labeled, “Slevin.” 

“General Slevin, prepare the men for an invasion from Novigrad.”

oOo

Malek scanned the horizon around him. It was absolute chaos. Hundreds, if not thousands, were still fleeing Novigrad, and a scene from his youth flashed through his mind. When he’d been a teenager, the river near his home had flooded. As the water had risen and entered many of the towns’ houses and barns, he remembered watching hundreds of rats in the town scattering for higher, dryer, safer ground. That’s what Novigrad looked like now, he thought. Everyone fleeing the city had the same frenzied look about them. A few stopped once they reached the Seven Cats and turned to watch the carnage, but most kept heading east. Though, by that point, exhaustion had taken hold, and they were no longer running for safety. They simply shuffled along while continuously looking back over their shoulders. 

“Where will you go?” Malek asked, looking down from his mount at Celeste and her two children. Timataal and the rest of Malek’s men had finally arrived at the Seven Cats Inn and had brought his horse with them.

The tears were no longer flowing from Celeste’s or her children’s eyes. It seemed that they were all just numb at that point.

She slowly shook her head. 

“We’ve…we’ve got some friends in Oxenfurt. Maybe they can put us up for a bit. Of course, if those things head that direction, then…I don’t know.”

Malek reached into a pocket, and, after scanning his eyes around him, leaned down and slipped a small bag of coin into the woman’s hand. 

“Hide it well,” he stated, looking hard into her eyes. “These are desperate, dangerous times.”

She stared back and then nodded her head slowly. 

“We’d escort you, but Oxenfurt is not our destination.”

Celeste just nodded her head again, gathered up her children, and then began her journey east.

Malek turned back to the city. It appeared to him that every building was aflame. Occasionally, he would catch a glimpse of one of the creatures materializing high above the city before dropping down into a new neighborhood to wreak more havoc. Even at that distance, he recognized the magical creatures from the basement of the Vizima palace. He had warned the Emperor. Warned him against ever getting involved with Philippa Eilhart in any way. 

Malek shook his head and whispered to himself. 

“Emhyr, you damned fool…look at what you’ve let loose.” 

oOo

Geralt and Evie ran through the trees east of Novigrad and found their friends, more or less, where they’d left them. Lydial rushed towards them and hugged them both. 

“What the hell is happening in there?” asked Roche.

“I’ll tell you on the way. We need to ride,” answered Geralt, already heading towards their horses.

“Where to?” asked Barcain.

“Tretogor. We think Radovid’s holding Claude prisoner. If so, we gotta break him out.”

“Fantastic,” replied Benny with a sigh.

oOo

_Ostrynos Peninsula, Redania_

Emhyr didn’t know it, but so far, his plans were working to perfection. As the free city of Novigrad was burning to the ground, thousands of Nilfgaardian troops set foot on Redanian soil more than a hundred miles to the north. Halfway between Blaviken and Roggeveen, a piece of landed jutted out westward, like a point, into the ocean. This area, known as the Ostrynos Peninsula, formed the southern edge of the Gulf of Praxeda and contained gradually-sloping, sandy beaches. It was an ideal place for an amphibious assault. 

Along with the many, terrifying tales of flying, fire-breathing monsters, there were also enough eye-witnesses who confirmed seeing Nilfgaardian troop ships in the Novigrad harbor that King Radovid had to take seriously the threat of invasion on his southwestern border. Therefore, he had begun repositioning many of his units towards the free city, leaving a much smaller force defending the shores of the peninsula. The Black Ones rolled through the meager Redanian defense and began marching with purpose towards the southeast. Their destination was Tretogor, residence of Radovid. Emhyr believed in the maxim, “Cut off the head and the body will die.” He was confident that if he could kill the king, then the Redanian generals would sue for peace. There was no plan B. 


	27. Chapter 27

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 15

_Tretogor, Redania_

“So, what’s on your mind?” asked Timataal in a low voice.

“Who said I was here to talk?” Malek whispered back. “Maybe I just came to relieve you.”

Timataal never shifted his eyes from his surroundings, but a smirk did break across his face. He wasn’t fooled. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be relieved for several more hours. Malek had showed up for some other reason.

The two men were hunkered down in the shadows of a narrow alley that ran on the backside of a butcher’s shop that sold mystery meat. Timataal guessed it was mostly rat – perhaps small dogs or cats. As it was already past sundown, the shop – along with most other businesses in the neighborhood - was closed, but that didn’t mean the alley and streets were empty. In fact, they were teeming with hundreds – if not thousands - of now homeless Novigradians who had fled to the capital to escape the annihilation of their free city.

Wearing dirty cloaks and with cowls covering their faces, Malek and Timataal were indistinguishable from any other of the homeless and downtrodden that were now living in the outer neighborhoods of Tretogor – the neighborhoods outside of the city’s walls. If Timataal had leaned over onto his side and turned his head, he would have been able to gaze upward along a wide road that ran for more than a mile on a gradual, ascending slope. At the top of that large hill sat the Redanian royal residence, which was easily twice the size of the witcher stronghold of Kaer Morhen. The capital city sprawled out from the royal palace on each of the hill’s four sides. The elegance of the homes and businesses was directly related to their proximity to the palace. Along with the most high-end restaurants, hotels, boutiques, and brothels, many nobles and leaders of commerce had residences near the castle. The further down the hill one traveled, the seedier and grimier the streets, buildings, and citizens became. The city itself seemed to embody the nobles’ belief that piss and filth flowed downhill. 

From his vantage point in the alley, Timataal had a clear view of the Pontar Road, the main entryway into the city from the south. There was no gate barring access into the city, for there were no walls surrounding the city, either. Or, at least, there was no wall this far out. Centuries ago, as businesses and homes were built up around the royal palace, a strong, thick, gated wall was built to protect the populace. However, over time, more and more people continued to flock to the capital, constructing new homes and shops outside the city walls, and none of the Redanian kings had ever bothered to build a second wall around the newer Tretogorian citizens and neighborhoods. Thus, the city had a literal wall separating the rich and privileged that lived near the palace from the poor and unwashed living down below – just as the upper crust believed there should be.

Malek and his men had been in the Redanian capital for four days, doing their best to watch the city’s entryways for Evie’s arrival. Malek’s problem was that – with no outer wall - there were more ways into the city than he had men available. Thus, he couldn’t be sure that she and the witcher hadn’t already snuck their way past his watchers. And that was assuming that Tretogor was even their destination. His decision to come to the capital was based purely upon Celeste’s revelation that Claude was imprisoned there. But none of that uncertainty was what was troubling Malek the most.

“I’m surprised,” replied the stout Nilfgaardian to Malek’s remark. “After all the years we’ve known each other, you don’t think I can read you? You haven’t been yourself since we left Novigrad.” 

Malek didn’t say anything, but he did give just the slightest nod of his head.

“You worried she’s dead?”

“That’s partly it.”

Timataal nodded. “Well…luckily, she’s with the witcher. I’m sure he got her out.” Then, he added, “Because he’s good…isn’t he?” This last question was laced with a mirthful tone.

Malek couldn’t see Timataal’s face, but he knew his second-in-command was sporting a “I told you so” grin. 

“I told you what happened, so you already know the answer to that. Yes…he’s very good. He could’ve killed me at any point. I’d heard about the Signs he can use, but…I’d never seen them in action.”

“Now you know how those three soldiers in Tarsus felt when he hexed their minds.”

“Yeah. It’s a pretty helpless feeling.”

“So, what are you going to do if you – or we - have to face him again?”

“I’m working on it. I figure if dimeritium will neutralize a mage’s powers, then hopefully it’ll work on him, too. That, and Miss Vigo said she could potentially create a magical amulet to block the mind-control.”

“And you actually trust her? You know, I’ve never known you to be so cozy with a magic user. Maybe I don’t know you so well, after all,” he said in jest.

“Yes, well… sometimes dire situations call for less-than-ideal alliances.”

Timataal nodded. “Hey, you’ll hear no complaints from me. I would’ve bled out in the Blue Mountains if not for her so…I’m partial to her.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his boss nodding his head in agreement. “But, your niece…the witcher…not the only thing bothering you, is it?”

Malek didn’t say anything for a while. Timataal finally heard him exhale deeply and then he spoke.

“Have I ever given you any orders or…acted in a way that you were fundamentally opposed to?”

Timataal was quiet for a moment and then shook his head. 

“Nah. I mean, sure, you’ve given directives that I questioned, that I haven’t always completely agreed with. But you know me - I’ve always let you know if I thought there was a better way of accomplishing the task. But…if you’re talking about something that has been crossways with my moral code…then, no.” 

“And if I did, how would you respond?”

Timataal shrugged. “Well, you and I have the type of relationship where I could talk to you about it so…I would talk to you about it.”

“And if talking didn’t change my mind?”

For the first time in their conversation, Timataal stopped scanning his surroundings for Evie and turned to face the man next to him.

“Malek, I’m closer to you than I am to anyone else in this world. Hell, even my own kids. You know I’d die for you. And part of our friendship has always been based on the fact that, on the main things, we’ve more or less always seen eye to eye. But there are some things I’d never compromise on…not even for you. If you started acting like…let’s say, Radovid…then I’d try to keep you from going down that path, but I wouldn’t let you take me down it with you.”

The two men stared into each other’s eyes for several moments before Malek eventually shifted his gaze downward as he became lost in thought. In his mind, he saw Novigrad – the second largest city on the Continent – engulfed in flames. He heard the screams of thousands of perishing souls - including those of children – who’d had absolutely no role to play in the war between Nilfgaard and the North. He imagined their bodies burned to nothing but ash. And he thought about the man who had given the order to destroy the city. He wondered just how he was going to be able to reconcile himself to it all. 

oOo

It had taken Geralt, Evie and the rest several days to make it to Tretogor, and they had not arrived prior to the gates of the city’s walls being closed and barred. Fortunately, thanks to Roche’s espionage and connections, the group had been able to sneak their way into the city proper. But, even then, they’d had to be careful. Scores of Redanian soldiers manned both the city’s walls and streets. Geralt, Barcain, Ves and Roche had spent the bulk of the last twenty-four hours scouting out the royal palace’s defenses from all sides. 

Per the king’s orders, the palace was on full alert. The gates to the palace grounds remained closed, and soldiers were on constant patrol along the ramparts, atop the battlements. Other archers sat in the barbican and various bastions looking out the arrow loops for approaching enemy forces. And if enemy forces were indeed able to make it past the city’s walls and reach the palace, then they would be quite easy to see. While the city of Tretogor did surround the palace grounds, for safety purposes, the closest buildings were well over fifty yards away from the thirty-foot high, outer palace walls. Therefore, it would be very difficult for any invaders to sneak across that wide expanse undetected – a fifty-yard expanse riddled with various traps and obstacles. According to Roche, the keep, in addition to the city itself, looked to be on severe lockdown, certainly more so than the last time he and Ves had been in the area over a week ago. Of course, that made sense. Everyone assumed it was in response to the attack of Novigrad.   
  
“Okay, Roche, you and your men have been watching Radovid’s castle for over a year. So, how do we get in?” asked the witcher. “It looks impenetrable.”

“If we tried going through the front gate or over the walls, then I’d agree,” answered the Temerian. 

The group was all currently gathered around a table in one of his safe-houses within the city. 

“Then, what’s your plan?” asked Barcain.

“We go under the walls.”

Roche went on to explain that one of his spies inside of the castle had informed him of the presence of catacombs below the palace grounds. She had never seen them herself, but she’d heard whispers of a maze of caves that were used as secret passages in and out of the castle. After receiving that information, Roche and his men had spent weeks searching the countryside for every cave entrance. While they had found a few, none of the caves, as far as they could tell, led to the royal residence. One of the other rumors that his spy had passed on was that one of the secret passages came out somewhere within the Romanov Bank.   
  
“So, why haven’t you used it to infiltrate the castle and kill Radovid?” asked Geralt.

“And just how were we supposed to do that? That bank is more heavily guarded than a priestess’ knickers, and I’ve got less than twenty men. Even if we were somehow able to overwhelm the bank guards, Radovid’s soldiers would be on us like sailors on a whorehouse. But now…” responded the commando with a smile, “we’ve got ourselves a mage and a witcher on our side. That should even out the odds a bit.”

oOo

“I’m not a fool,” proclaimed Evie with conviction. “Killing is clearly sometimes necessary…in self-defense or war. But, unlike you, I don’t think it’s the only solution for every situation.”

“Lady, look around you,” said Roche with furrowed brows. “What do you think we’re in the middle of - if not war?”

Evie shook her head. “You said it yourself – the bank guards are not Redanian soldiers. They are just ordinary citizens, hired to protect the bank. They are not our enemy.”

She then turned to face the witcher. “Geralt, you know how I feel about this.”

Roche snorted and addressed the White Wolf. 

“What the hell, Witcher? You married a pacifist? She keep your balls in a box, too?” He then glared at Evie. “And I don’t remember even asking for your input on this. This is a combat mission, not a history lesson. So, keep your opinions to yourself.” 

Suddenly, there was incredible tension within the small, crowded room. Roche, Ves, and most of his men, along with Geralt and his group, had been discussing for the last hour the best way to infiltrate the Romanov Bank. Evie had clearly taken issue with Roche’s assumption that once inside they’d simply kill all of the bank guards.

The Butcher of Blaviken stared hard at the commando. For several long moments, he just breathed in and out very slowly. Evie, seeing the look on his face, reached under the table and squeezed his thigh. She’d seen that look before. Finally, the monster-slayer spoke in a very low voice. 

“Wanna insult me, Roche? Fine, I can take it. But I advise you to be extremely careful how you speak to my wife. It could end very badly for you.”

Roche’s eyes never faltered. He stared right at Geralt. 

“Fair enough, but if you think I’m going to risk the lives of any of my men just to placate your wife, then you’re a fool.”

“Gentlemen, please,” interjected Benny. “Let’s remember...we’re on the same side here, right? We’re all trying to get into the cavern below the bank.” He then turned to Roche. “How we do it – killing or not killing - shouldn’t matter, right?”

The Temerian tore his gaze away from the witcher, looked at the mage, and gave a short nod.

“Just know – if any guard comes at me or my men with deadly force, we will respond in kind.”

“I don’t believe any of us here have a problem with that.” continued Benny, turning his head to look at everyone in the room. He then looked back at Roche. “But, let us” - and the sorcerer motioned in his friends’ direction – “worry about taking care of the bank guards. I think we can do it without bloodshed.”

“Sounds fine to me,” replied Roche. He then turned to look at Evie. “Just know that once we’re inside the palace, it will be bloody. The Redanian soldiers are not just going to lay down their weapons because we ask nicely. I hope that’s not going to offend your sensibilities.”

“Your concern is touching. Don’t worry. I’ll manage,” she replied, while once again squeezing her husband’s leg in reassurance. 

oOo

_Velen, Temeria_

Yoana came awake to the sound of Fergus’ voice. She raised up in her bed and saw her friend standing at the threshold of her bedroom door still wearing his sleeping clothes. 

“Yoana! Get up! You gotta see this!”

“What is it?” she asked, suddenly completely alert.

“The fire. It’s closer,” the dwarf answered, before turning his back on her and heading to the front door of their shared hut. 

Yoana threw a shawl around her shoulders, found her shoes, and headed outside. As she was walking towards Fergus, she noticed that he - along with at least a dozen other folk who called Crow’s Perch home - was facing towards the northeast. Her eyes shot upward toward the horizon in that direction. What she saw was unmistakable. Fergus was right. It was fire. For the last three days, everyone’s attention had been focused on the enormous clouds of black smoke filling the sky in the north, and it seemed that the fire and smoke got closer each day. The fire that she was seeing now was the closest yet.  
  
“Do you think it’s a forest fire?” she asked Fergus as she came up next to him.

“Nay. There’s not enough trees in that direction to make a fire that big.”

“Then what?”

“I’m afeared it’s the Inn at the Crossroads, and it looks like the fire is comin’ our way.”

“But we’re safe. The moat should protect us, right?”

Fergus didn’t answer. 

They stood there for at least ten minutes just staring at the night sky when suddenly Yoana heard a rumble. But it didn’t come from the sky. In fact, she could have sworn she felt a vibration in her feet.

“Did you hear that, Fergus? Was that thunder?”

“Let’s hope. Pray the rain comes.”

A moment later, she felt another vibration. 

“That’s not thunder,” she whispered.

Fergus turned to look at Yoana. “I’m thinkin’ you’re right. Let’s -” But, he never finished his thought.

Suddenly, the roof of the main house exploded, eliciting shouts of dismay from virtually everyone there. Some of the residents of Crow’s Perch immediately ran away. Some were frozen in place. While a few others took a few tentative steps towards the house. 

“What the hell was that?” screamed Yoana, now clutching Fergus’ night shirt in her tight fist.

“A meteor?” 

Whatever it was had caused the house to catch fire. They could now all smell smoke and see flames sprouting up through the hole in the roof. This caused shouts of “Fire!” to be called out as many of the men started running towards the compound’s well to start drawing buckets of water. 

Yoana was running in that direction, as well, when she heard a roar coming from the house. Her eyes widened in shock as a gigantic creature burst its way through the front wall of the building. It turned and then breathed out a massive flame of fire towards the wooden rubble. Upon hearing screams behind it, the monster slowly turned around. It let out another roar and began running towards the well, where a congregation was still gathered. Yoana didn’t even bother to see what was going to happen. She simply ran – as fast and as hard as she’d ever run in her life. 

oOo

“Ugh”, whispered Evie. “I can’t believe you’re friends with that guy. What an arrogant… jerk.”

Evie and Geralt were lying together on a blanket in a corner of one of the rooms in the safe-house. They were sharing the room with at least a dozen others. The late-night meeting had ended a half-hour ago, with everyone finally in agreement on the plan of action for infiltrating the Romanov Bank. It was agreed that they’d all get a few hours of sleep before the sun rose, and then they’d start preparations for the incursion. 

“Told you he wasn’t my friend,” the witcher replied in his own whisper. His mouth was right next to her ear. “He and I did a few favors for each other in the past – that’s all.”

“Well…I still don’t like him. He’s obnoxious.”

Geralt grinned to himself in the dark. He loved his wife’s integrity and her passion, that she stood up for her principles. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her so angry before, and he was quite happy it wasn’t directed at him. 

“Agreed, but I’m not sure that I’ve ever met a military commander who wasn’t. He’s a career soldier, not a diplomat. And commanders aren’t used to having their orders questioned. They expect to hear a, ‘Yes, sir,’ and that’s it.”   
  
Evie let out a small snort. “Well, I’m not his soldier.” She paused for a moment, and when she spoke again, her tone was much less angry and much more anxious. “You told me on the river that you don’t trust him. You don’t think that, once we’re inside, he’d try to kill us, do you?”  
  
The witcher was quiet for a moment. “No. I have no doubt he’d try to kill us if he thought it would somehow advance his cause, but…I just don’t see how turning on us while we’re in Radovid’s palace would help him in any way. We should be fine.”  
  
Evie sighed. “Should be. Great. I think I liked it better when you and I were fighting nekkers. At least then, I knew who the enemy was.”

Geralt gave his wife a squeeze. “Hey, I’m supposed to be the cynical, untrusting one in this relationship, remember?”

“Yeah, well…maybe you’re rubbing off on me,” she whispered. The witcher could tell she had a smile on her face. 

“Baby, that’s not good at all. I’m in need of your influence. Not the other way around.”

Evie squeezed Geralt’s hand that was pressed to one of her breasts. 

“Thank you, Geralt.”

“For what?” 

“For standing up for me with Roche. It made me feel really good that you did.”

“That’s what husbands do,” he whispered, as he held her a bit tighter. 

Suddenly, she felt very aroused. Her body was responding to – not only his hot breath on her ear but also – his supportive and strong words. She felt so safe and protected. She wanted to roll over and undress her husband right then and there, but she was suddenly and rudely interrupted from her thoughts by the sound of someone on the other side of the room farting in their sleep, which made her sigh and roll her eyes. So instead, she brought Geralt’s hand up to her lips, and kissed it once, lightly. 

“I’m so looking forward to our honeymoon. Just the two of us,” she whispered.

The witcher smiled. “Me, too, wife. Soon. We’ll have it soon.”

Then, Evie did her best to fall asleep, hoping that her dreams would be filled with nothing but her and Geralt – all alone and spending time together at Corvo Bianco. 

oOo

“So, what do you think?” asked Benny.

Geralt looked down at his unconscious wife lying peacefully on a blanket and then back to the mage. He brought the soaked rag close to his nose. After taking a tentative sniff, he shook his head several times as if to clear the cobwebs from his brain. He nodded. 

“I think you’re a genius - that’s what I think,” the witcher answered. “It never would have even occurred to me to combine those ingredients like this.”

The sorcerer shrugged. “Yes, well…it’s all a matter of perspective. As a healer, my focus with using alchemy is quite different than yours…my witcher friend.”

“That is true.” 

The witcher then looked out of the safehouse window to gauge the amount of sunlight left in the day. 

“Alright, let’s get to work on the bombs. You’ll probably need to head to the bank soon.”

“Agreed,” said Benny, and then he exhaled deeply.

Geralt looked at the mage’s face. “You okay? Want to go over the plan one last time.”

“Nah. Easy-peasy.”

Geralt slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Yeah. Now, let’s wake up my wife.” 

oOo

King Radovid sat in a high-backed chair in his war room. Standing in front of him was the captain of his palace guard.

“I have just received word that a small enemy force will be attempting to infiltrate the palace sometime tonight through the caverns,” stated the king.

Captain Winski suddenly snapped to attention upon hearing those words.

“Your Highness, are you sure?”

“Do not question my sources, Captain.” 

Winski humbly bowed his head. “My apologies, Your Grace. Your news simply shocked me. Your instructions?”

A smile crossed Radovid’s face as he imagined a large chess board. “We draw them into our ambush, and then we will crush them.”

oOo

_Krollas Forest, Redania_

The Nilfgaardian commander lay camouflaged inside the tree line of the forest located due north of the capital city of Redania. Though he had scouts, he had chosen to view the situation with his own eyes. With his spy-glass, he slowly scanned the city from end to end. He took special notice of the activity along the city’s walls and along those of the royal palace, itself. He smiled to himself as he realized that the bulk of Radovid’s men were on the southern and western borders of the city. It appeared that the king had not received any warning of the Nilfgaardians’ amphibious assault of his lands from the northwest. The Redanian monarch had dispatched a scouting party into the Krollas forest, but they had been completely overwhelmed by the Black Ones. They had all been captured or killed. Thus, the Nilfgaardian attack from the north still held its element of surprise. 

The commander took the spy-glass from his eye and slowly crawled backwards from the edge of the forest. Once he felt he was safely confined within the thick shadows of the trees, he stood and turned around. Standing in a cluster were the commander’s officers.

“Prepare your men,” he ordered. “We attack tonight. Remember, we kill, but we do not burn the city. If this turns into a siege, we’ll need every bit of food and shelter available.

oOo

Benny, standing in utter darkness, put his ear to the closed door and listened intently for at least a full minute. He couldn’t hear any noises coming from the other side. He cast a concealment charm on himself and held his breath as he slowly opened the door to the second-floor supply closet. With the door open just an inch, he paused and listened again. He still heard nothing. He quickly slid out of the closet and then carefully and quietly shut it. He tried to control his breathing as he looked around, and he nodded his head to himself when he saw that he was all alone in the darkened, upstairs hallway of the Romanov Bank. He looked toward the end of the hallway – the end with the stairs – and he could just detect flickering light visible from the first floor. He could also hear muffled laughter echoing up the stone stair well. Having spent an hour in the bank earlier that morning under his disillusionment spell, he figured that both the light and the men’s voices were emanating from the bank guards’ barracks that was on the north side of building’s ground floor. Benny’s observations from that morning’s reconnaissance had matched Roche’s intel. The bank always had ten to twelve men guarding the premises during the day, and at least half that number stayed on duty overnight, even with the bank securely locked down. Given that virtually every noble in Tretogor kept valuables within his vault, Victor Romanov took security very seriously. 

Benny turned away from the stairwell and wished that he had Geralt’s cat eyes because he could see next-to-nothing. With one hand lightly touching the wall next to him and his other hand in front of him, Benny slowly moved in the opposite direction of the stairwell, passing several offices on his left and right. At the end of the hallway stood a large window that faced the back-side of the bank. During the day, the sun shone brightly through the glass, but at night, it – like the rest of the bank’s windows – was covered with thick metal shutters that were locked from the interior. After reaching the window, Benny traced his fingertips along the iron surface until he found the metal padlock in the middle, locking the two shutters together. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a large, thick, cloth shirt and two small vials. Since there was not any moonlight coming through the crack where the two shutters met, Benny was having to handle his supplies completely by his sense of touch. He wadded up the shirt and placed it on the floor below the window sill. He then looked over his shoulder back towards the stairwell one last time before removing the stopper from one of the vials and pouring a viscous liquid over the padlock. He quickly removed the stopper from the second vial and poured its contents over the lock, as well. Immediately, the metal padlock started to dissolve under the corrosive, acidic reaction. 

Benny was breathing fast, and he could feel several beads of sweat running down from his hairline. He was wiping his forehead with the back of his hand when he heard loud laughter coming from the first floor. He jerked his head around towards the stairwell and held his breath. He could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage. After a moment, he realized the laughter wasn’t making its way upstairs, and he exhaled deeply. 

He turned back towards the window and whispered, “Come on, come on.”

Suddenly, he heard a tiny pop. The lock fell from its hinge, landed on the cloth shirt, but then bounced off and clattered onto the stone floor. Benny’s eyes went wide. To his ears, the sound was as loud as a window shattering. He held his breath again. He could swear that the guards’ laughter had suddenly stopped. Fear gripped him, and he just knew guards would be coming up the stairs at any second. He was still invisible, but if guards investigated the second-floor hallway, they were sure to see that the window had been tampered with. 

He reached into a second satchel, resting on the opposite hip from the first. He grabbed one of the special bombs that Geralt had crafted that afternoon and started slowly tiptoeing down the hall towards the stairwell. Halfway down the hall, he stopped and again listened carefully. Suddenly, he heard the loud laughter and talking start up again. He rested his back and head against the wall to catch his breath.

“I am not cut out for this,” he thought to himself. “I should be in my lab, conducting experiments for new potions, healing sick kids. Not…this.” 

Magic was Benny’s life. The aging sorcerer had spent virtually his entire life in or around the Ban Ard Magical Academy. And despite his kindness and humility, he hadn’t made many true friends over the years. Ban Ardians were clearly appreciative of his healing skills, but they had also always been a bit wary of him due to his magical abilities. And his fellow sorcerers? Well, they seemed to look down on the meek and unambitious – at least, in their eyes – man with middle-of-the road power. It wasn’t that they were hostile towards him, but in the society of magic, where the most powerful were advisors in royal courts and whose actions influenced the fate of nations, who really cared to befriend a short, portly fellow who cured peasants’ tummy aches? That’s why Benny had always cherished Geralt’s friendship more than the witcher ever knew. Geralt – despite being the famous White Wolf – had always treated Benny as an equal. It’s what had caused him to decide to follow Geralt on this adventure. And he was glad he had. He had found acceptance in the group.

The sorcerer breathed in and out very deeply and purposefully. “Okay, get it together, Benny. They’re counting on you.” 

He then nodded his head several times to reassure himself before walking slowly back towards the window. 

In addition to the padlocked-hinge, the shutters were also barred closed. As carefully as he could, he slid all three, flat, metal bars to the right. He paused and looked over his shoulder one last time before slowly swinging the shutters open. However, even with them now open, the hallway was still dark, for the light coming through the window was negligible. Thick clouds filled the night sky, blocking out nearly all illumination from the moon and stars. He looked through the glass panes into the darkened alley below. Not seeing anyone, he cautiously raised the window inch-by-inch. Suddenly, he saw three men appear out of the shadows and run towards the bank’s outer wall. 

Benny was about to poke his head out the window and look down when suddenly two hands appeared and grasped the window sill. A second later, Geralt was crawling through the open window and then standing next to the mage. 

“Great job,” whispered Geralt.

“Yeah…piece of cake,” replied the sorcerer, still breathing heavily. 

“Hey, you okay?”

“You bet. Like I said, easy-peasy.”

The witcher nodded. “Have they been making rounds?”

Benny shook his head. “I haven’t heard them come up here even once. Sounds like they’re all down in their barracks.”

“Looks like things are finally going our way. Come on.”

oOo

Ratibor carefully looked into the eyes of the seven men sitting around him at the large table. 

“I bet…fifty,” he finally said, keeping his face impassive, and then he placed the coin in front of him on the table. His face may have shown nothing, but his heart was thumping hard.

“Too rich for me,” replied the guard to his left, as he tossed his cards toward the dealer. 

Two of the players thought long and hard on their decisions, but, eventually, both men, in turn, folded their hands. As the last man mucked his cards, the tiniest of smiles crossed Ratibor’s face. He picked up the two cards that were face-down in front of him.

“Gentleman,” he said calmly, and then he made eye contact with each of the men again. Then, he exhaled deeply. “You each owe me a golden dragon,” he said with a huge smile as he showed everyone his cards. “I got the hammer.” 

Ratibor let out a huge laugh – one of both joy and relief – as he heard shouts of “No!” and “Damn it!” from his friends. Prior to the start of the game, they’d all agreed that if anyone won a pot with the “hammer” – the worst starting hand possible – then each player would owe the winner a golden dragon. The game-within-the-game certainly increased the betting action.

As the bank guard was reaching for the coins in front of him, he suddenly picked up a movement out of the corner of his eye. Before he could move, he heard the sound of shattering glass coming from the middle of the table, and when he looked there, he saw a broken cannister. As the card-players all jumped to their feet, two more projectiles were tossed into the guards’ barracks, exploding on the floor near the men, and then, suddenly, the lone door of the room slammed shut, seemingly all on its own. 

Ratibor grabbed his sword that was leaning against the table. He unsheathed it and started rushing towards the closed door when he started to feel light-headed. He took several more, unstable steps forward and grabbed the door handle, but when he pulled, the door wouldn’t budge. He heard a crash behind him. When he turned, he saw several of his mates falling to the floor. He shook his head as his vision began to darken. He took a step backward, stumbled, and then he felt himself falling as his world went black. 

On the other side of the closed door, stood the witcher. With both hands on the handle and one foot up against the wall, he was pulling back with all his strength. Benny, invisible, was beside him. 

After about a minute, Geralt turned to his friend. 

“I don’t hear anything. They should be out, right?” 

“Gotta be,” answered Benny.

“Okay. I’ll stay here just in case. You go let the rest in the backdoor.”

oOo

It was well past midnight, and Private Durbin, standing atop Tretogor’s city wall, was doing his best to stay awake. He and his company had been tasked with protecting the northern perimeter of the city. They had been on high alert for many days, but with each passing shift of guarding the wall with no Nilfgaardian attack, the ‘edge’ on the soldier’s focus had become dulled. It was just human nature. He could only stare off into the distance with nothing happening for so long. It would have helped, he thought, if all of the peasants in the outer neighborhoods had been let inside the city’s walls. At least, then, hearing a noise or seeing a person walking through a passing shadow would have warned him, without a doubt, of the enemy’s presence. But, as it was, there was no way to distinguish between a Nilfgaardian soldier and a drunken bum stumbling his way home. And after a while, the sounds of shutting doors, barking dogs, and footsteps through alleyways just became routine. And it certainly didn’t help that the homes and shops in the outer neighborhoods were built right up next to the city wall itself. Talk about giving the enemy good cover. He was just thinking about what would be served for breakfast when a crossbow bolt pierced his brain. As his body was toppling off the top of the wall, a dozen, black-clad men – all carrying ladders - emerged from the shadows below. Suddenly, shouts could be heard all along the northern wall of Tretogor. The Black Ones had arrived. 

oOo

While Roche and his men were busy upstairs – first, letting the fumes in the barracks dissipate and then binding up the bank guards - Geralt had spent the last half hour in the basement of the bank. Common-sense told the witcher that if there was a secret passage into any catacombs, then he’d find it somewhere down below. In addition to the vault, the lowest-level also held several small offices. The White Wolf had already inspected two of them and was standing before a third. Unlike the first two, this office’s door was locked. After closely examining the threshold and finding nothing suspicious, he easily gained access to the room with a swift quick near the door’s handle. As soon as the monster-hunter stepped into the office, he sensed something out of place. At first, his brain couldn’t discern what his instincts were picking up, but then he realized that the small room smelled different than the rest. It had a musty odor, as if no one had been it for weeks. 

He scanned a small desk in the middle of the room. Unlike the desks in the other offices, this one had no papers tossed about on it. It appeared as if it was rarely – if ever - used. He rubbed his index finger across the top of the desk, creating a smudge through the layer of dust. The witcher stood still and breathed in and out deeply several times. In addition to the musty odor, there was some other smell that he was detecting in the small office, and the odor put him on high-alert.

He looked over his shoulder at Evie and Benny standing in the hallway, just outside of the office. Evie was holding a torch in her hand. 

“Stay there. I think the entrance is somewhere in here, but give me a few more minutes,” he informed them. 

The witcher bent down and inspected the floor around him. He didn’t notice anything suspicious near the desk so he began slowly making his way around the small office. He noticed some boot prints on the dusty floor. He followed them over to one side of the room, stopped in front of a book case, and bent down a second time. 

“Marks on the floor. The dust has been disturbed,” he said loud enough for Benny and Evie to hear. “Looks like this bookcase has been moved several times.”

Geralt carefully examined the back edge of the bookcase that was touching the wall. He cast a standard Quen Sign, grabbed the edge of the bookcase and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. He put a little extra ‘muscle’ into his effort a second time, but still, the bookcase didn’t move. 

“Odd,” he said quietly and then began looking at the books on the case.

“What’s wrong?” asked Evie.

“Think the case is definitely hiding something, but I can’t move it. So, there’s gotta be some kind of lever or mechanism.”

“Can we help?” asked Benny.

“Prefer not…at least, not yet. Told you…there could be booby-traps.”

Geralt spent the next few moments inspecting the books on the case. 

“Dust on all the books, too,” he said to himself. Because the faint, suspicious smell was stronger near the bookcase, he didn’t even risk touching any of the books, much less actually removing any from the shelves on which they were resting.

Eventually, he turned his head and looked at the waist-high table next to the bookcase. On one end of the table was a two-foot tall, bronze bust of King Radovid. Geralt bent over and carefully inspected both the bust and the area around it. He brought his face just inches from Radovid’s. He inhaled deeply but didn’t smell anything strange. However, he did notice that Radovid’s head wasn’t completely covered in dust. The top of the bust’s head – where the crown rested – gleamed a bit in several spots, as if someone had grasped it with their hand. The witcher raised up and looked around the office before, finally, turning back towards the table. He reached out his hand to grab the bust but, then, stopped just inches short of touching it. He stood there, simply staring at Radovid’s face. Finally, he dropped his hand to his side and stepped back two paces. He then withdrew his steel sword from his back and crouched down low. 

“Be ready,” he warned Evie and Benny.

“For what?” asked Benny.

“For anything.”

The witcher slowly reached his sword forward towards the bust. He placed the tip of the sword between Radovid’s eyes, and then he tipped the bust backwards, the anterior portion of the bust’s base coming up off of the table top. He heard a “click” and then a “thrumming” sound above his head as a spear shot out from one side of the room and impaled itself in the wall about an inch above Radovid’s crown. Evie yelped and Benny jumped back from the doorway. A moment later, he poked his head back into view, his eyes wide. 

“You okay?” Evie asked.

The witcher looked back at his wife and nodded. He noticed her breathing was suddenly very fast.

“What a maniac. Even his bust wants to kill you,” whispered Benny.

The bust was partially tipped over with the head resting against the wall. This gave Geralt the chance to view the bottom-side of the statue’s base. Evie thought that she heard him mumble to himself, and then she noticed that he grabbed the blade of his sword in his left hand. He reached forward – with the hilt facing away from him - and caught the back-side of the bust with the cross-guard of his sword. He slowly pulled the bust back up-right so that it was resting flat on the table top again, and then he continued to pull it forward. Once the back-side of the bust’s base was two inches of the table, Geralt heard another “clicking” sound. However, this time, no deadly spears flew through the air. The noise had come from the bookcase. He quickly glanced over and saw that the bookcase was no longer flush with the wall. By now, his Quen shield had faded so he signed another and turned towards the bookcase. He, once again, used his sword – this time, to swing the bookcase away from the wall, as if it was on a hinge. Behind the case was a narrow, dark passageway.

“You found it!” Evie exclaimed.

As she and Benny stepped into the room, Geralt raised his hand towards them.

“Wait.”

“What is it?” she asked.

The witcher pointed to the backside of the bookcase. Attached there were several dangerous looking cannisters. 

“Just be careful,” Geralt answered. He then stood, stepped forward, and examined them closely. “Thought I smelled poison earlier. Looks like they’re connected to the books with wires. If I’d pulled a book off the shelf, they would have exploded.” 

“Uh, Geralt?” said Benny.

“Yeah?” 

“No offense, but…I volunteer you to go through the passage first.”

“Yeah,” he said as he nodded and made eye-contact with his wife.

oOo

King Radovid stood eerily still in the dungeons of his palace. Flanked on either side of him were his two personal bodyguards, Ivan and Igor. The identical-twin brothers stood over seven feet tall, with arms the size of most men’s thighs. The monarch had tried waiting in his war room to hear of the results of the imminent ambush in the catacombs. He had told Winski, the captain of his guard, to contact him immediately when the enemy’s infiltration team had been captured. However, after several hours of hearing nothing, Radovid had grown impatient and come down to the lower-levels of the palace. He and his two guards stood in a secret room, the king staring at a man-sized hole in the rock wall – a hole that led down into the maze of connecting caverns below the city. 

Not for the first time, Radovid pondered the existence of luck in the universe. For most of his life, if he believed in luck at all, he would have said it only came in one kind – bad. It was his bad luck to be, in his youth, educated and mentored – and tortured - by someone as despicable as Philippa Eilhart. But it had only made him stronger. He had been forged like steel in those years of abuse, and he told himself that, because of it, no amount of luck could now stand up to his analytical mind and his will to survive. Despite their attempts to usurp what was rightfully his, he had thwarted the plans of everyone who had ever opposed him, whether it was Eilhart; Dijkstra, his father’s former advisor; Emhyr; or any other who wanted to remove his crown. 

But, perhaps, he thought, good luck existed, too. For this spy – the one who had brought to him the knowledge of the Sword of Destruction and the one who had informed him of this attempt to sneak into his palace – had simply stepped right into his circle, as if a gift from the gods. Radovid had spent no resources in trying to manipulate and turn one of Emhyr’s agents – or, at least, not in regards to the Sword – since he hadn’t even known of its existence. One day, this spy had just, figuratively and almost literally, knocked on his door. Of course, given who this spy was, Radovid had been suspicious at first, but over time the agent had earned his trust. He still wasn’t sure that he even believed in the existence of this mythical sword. It sounded like a fairy-tale to him. Therefore, initially, he had focused no attention on finding its location. Obviously, defeating the invading Nilfgaardian army was his priority. However, when it became clear that Emhyr was actively seeking the Sword, Radovid starting taking its existence more seriously. If nothing else, he hoped to obtain it first just to crush the southern emperor’s spirit. The North had lived in fear of Nilfgaard for too long, and he was determined to do what his father – and all the other Nordling monarchs – had failed to do. He would crush Emhyr and the Black Ones so thoroughly that they would never cross the Yaruga again. 

Suddenly, Radovid was brought out of his thoughts by a knock on the door of the secret room. A Redanian officer entered, gasping for breath.

“Your Highness,” said the officer. “The Nilfgaardians have breached the city’s northern walls.”

Radovid narrowed his eyes and then turned to his two bodyguards.

“You two remain here. When Winski and his men return with their captives, help him secure them in the cells and, then, notify me at once.” 

The king hurried out of the room and up the stairs to his war room without even waiting to hear their reply.

oOo

“Captain Roche, I don’t understand you,” said Evie.

“Lady, that’s the understatement of the century. I’m quite sure you don’t understand me at all,” replied the Temerian commando.

Barcain and Lydial had snuck out of Tretogor earlier in the day and were at an agreed-to location south of the city with horses, but everyone else was down in the basement of the bank, anxiously awaiting the witcher’s return. Except for Evie and Benny, they were all wearing Redanian soldier gear that they had confiscated through various means over the past twelve months of living in and around the capital city.

The witcher had been adamant that he should conduct a reconnaissance of the catacombs alone since he was the only one capable of seeing in the dark and he didn’t want the light from torches giving away their presence to anyone – or anything – who might be lurking below. Roche’s argument was that neither he nor his men needed the monster-hunter’s protection, but he had acquiesced in the end. 

“Hey, you wanna go down there by yourself and risk your life, that’s on you,” Roche had told the witcher.

That had been over ten minutes ago. The Temerian was now addressing the historian from Vicovaro.

“What exactly don’t you understand?” Roche asked Evie, the small sneer on his face visible to all.

“Well, given your desire for Temeria’s freedom, it makes more sense to me that you’d be fighting the Nilfgaardians – you know, the actual army that is occupying your country. Why are you so focused on Radovid?”

Roche just stared at Evie for a long while, as if contemplating on whether he should even bother to answer. Eventually, he relented.

“As a historian, I’m sure you’re aware of the saying, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’” 

Evie nodded.

“Well, in this case, that’s a load of crap. Both sides are Temeria’s enemy, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to destroy them both. Regardless of how underhanded the means may be. No matter how bloody it gets. No matter how repulsive it may be to you.”

Evie sighed. “What about me offends you so much?”

“You’re naïve and foolish. You live in your safe, morally-superior tower of academia with your high-minded, elitist ideals, miles away from the stench and ugliness of the real world. You don’t want to kill. Fine. But the rest of us” – and he motioned to his men – “are in the middle of a war. It’s kill or be killed. Men like Emhyr and Radovid understand only one thing – violence. They don’t compromise. Negotiate with them, and they’ll kill you as soon as you lower your guard. They’ve both done it before. You can’t bargain with them or appease them. So, it’s simple. You can only cut their heads off. And that’s what we plan to do.”

“And you’ll kill anyone who gets in your way.” It was a statement from Evie, not a question.

Roche smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. 

“It’s lucky we’re on the same side then…isn’t it?” 

oOo

The witcher descended the ladder and stepped onto the hard ground of a completely black cavern. While his cat-like eyes allowed him to see in dark environments, Geralt had decided to take a Cat potion, as well, for there was not even the tiniest bit of illumination down below. Based on how long it had taken him to climb down the ladder, he figured that he was well over fifty feet underground. He paused where he stood and used his senses to take in his surroundings. He noticed that he wasn’t in a narrow, man-made passageway. Clearly, the catacombs were natural, with stalactites hanging from the ceiling and stalagmites and boulders and other rocks scattered about. It was also quite wide – at least twenty feet across. He turned his head to face what he believed to be north – towards the palace – and saw that, up ahead, the passageway branched in several different directions. The monster-slayer listened intently. Somewhere in the maze-like caverns he could hear water slowly dripping, and behind him, to the south, he thought he could detect the sound of some type of non-human creature, but it was so faint that he wasn’t sure exactly what it was. The White Wolf slowly unsheathed his silver sword and then, becoming one with the darkness, he carefully and silently began moving north. 


	28. Chapter 28

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 16

The witcher literally stopped in his tracks. He had one foot in the air when he heard the unmistakable noise so he lowered his raised foot back to where it had been on the cavern floor and listened closely. After several moments, he continued forward in total silence, now even more cautious of where and how he stepped. He crept around a bend in the passageway and suddenly froze again. On both his left and right, crouched behind boulders and stalagmites, were several dozen Redanian soldiers hiding in the complete darkness. In addition to swords on their hips, almost all of them carried a crossbow. He had no idea how long they had been hiding there, but they had no torches or campfires lit, and he couldn’t smell any smoldering embers. They must have been waiting for at least a couple of hours. Since they were waiting in the dark, then it could only mean that they were planning an ambush, for light would have spoiled the element of surprise. And if they were planning an ambush, then there was pretty much only one logical conclusion to be made. And it wasn’t good. The witcher cursed to himself. 

If Geralt had not possessed decades of experience in highly dangerous situations, he would have been completely unnerved, standing just yards away from what looked to be close to fifty of Radovid’s men. Hidden by the darkness, he now understood how Benny felt when under a disillusionment spell, and he briefly wondered if he could ever manipulate the chaotic Power enough to cast such a spell for himself. It would be something he’d definitely want to try later on – assuming that there would be a ‘later on.’ 

The witcher maintained his slow, controlled breathing and carefully surveyed the surroundings. He listened closely and could hear a couple of soldiers whispering. Based on their comments, he gathered that they had been waiting down in the cavern for a while and that their nerves were starting to fray. Good, thought the witcher. He hoped he could use that to his advantage. His eyes moved upward towards the ceiling of the cave. He nodded to himself at what he saw, and then he slowly turned and walked away, the Redanians never even aware that he’d been there. 

oOo

“Does this help us or not?” Evie asked Benny in a whisper. 

Earlier, they’d all heard loud shouting coming from above. At first, they thought that the bank guards had somehow removed their gags and were making noise. However, Ves had just come down to the basement to report that Redanian soldiers were rushing towards the northern side of the city – the side opposite to the bank’s location. And that could only mean one thing – a Nilfgaardian invasion.

“That’s got to help, right? If the Redanians are focused on defending the city’s walls, then we should be able to get in and out of the palace that much easier.”

Evie nodded in agreement. “Let’s hope.”

oOo

“Wait a second,” said Roche. “You’re telling us that there are fifty soldiers down there – in the dark?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” answered the witcher, his eyes boring into those of the Temerian. The five of them - Geralt, Evie, Benny, Roche, and Ves - were in one of the offices in the bank’s basement with the door closed. 

Roche shifted his eyes over to Ves. The both looked like they had just bitten into a rotten apple.

“Just how well do you know your men, Roche?” asked Geralt.

“Screw you, Witcher. I vouch for all of them,” said Roche, taking a step toward the monster-slayer.

“Is that right? You once told me you don’t trust anybody,” the witcher growled.

“Wait,” interrupted Evie. “Geralt, what’s going on? I’m confused.” 

“What’s going on is that those soldiers down there in the dark can only mean one of two things. They’re either waiting on a Nilfgaardian attack to come through the caverns. Or, they’re waiting for us. And if they’re waiting for us, then that means someone told them we were coming.” Geralt was speaking to Evie, but his eyes never left Roche. 

“Well, it wasn’t any of my men.”

The witcher shook his head. “Just how much do you trust those spies of yours that are inside the palace?”

“Not completely, but…it can’t be them. They didn’t know anything about tonight.”

“Roche,” interrupted Ves.

“What?”

“Let me go check the men. I’ll be right back.”

Roche nodded.

Three minutes later, Ves walked back into the office, looking angry.

“Markinson’s not here.”

“What? Well, where the hell is he?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, but this afternoon, he did say he had to go to our other safe-house to pick up his Redanian uniform. I could have sworn he was with us tonight when we came to the bank, but now…I’m not sure he ever returned.”

“Damn it, Ves! And you’re just telling me this now!”

“Hey, I’m just finding out about it myself. Besides, you’re in charge, Roche. It’s the commander’s responsibility to know where his men are!”

“Enough!” growled the witcher. “You two can argue later about who cocked this up. Markinson – who is he?”

“He’s a good man and a good soldier,” answered Roche. “If he’s not here, then obviously, something happened to him, but…he’d no more betray Temeria than I would. We don’t even know he said anything. Maybe the Redanians are down there because they got word about Nilfgaard’s invasion.”

“I agree with Roche, Geralt,” said Ves. “I know Markinson. He’s Temerian through and through. The only way he’d rat us out is under extreme torture.”

“Swell,” mumbled the witcher to himself. “Well, regardless of why they’re down there, they are down there,” the witcher growled toward Roche. “So, we’ve gotta figure out what we’re gonna do now. Tonight might be our only chance of getting into the palace so we gotta come up with something.”

“What are our options?” asked Benny.

Geralt was silent for a moment before speaking.

“I see…maybe three options. With the Redanians focused on the attack to the north, we could, maybe, climb the southern wall. That is, if we’ve got some grappling hooks and rope. But I don’t know how inconspicuous we could be. I’ll be honest – I don’t like that option at all. There are way too many opportunities to be seen.”

“Agreed,” said Roche.

“A second option - we bypass the soldiers down below and try to find an alternate route through the caverns to the palace. But there’s no guarantee that there even is an alternate route or what might be lurking along those other paths. There could be something worse than soldiers waiting for us. Or three…we take the fight to the soldiers below. We do now have the element of surprise.”

Roche grabbed a quill and a piece of parchment off the office desk, turned the parchment over with its blank side up, and then handed Geralt the quill. 

“Draw us a layout of the cavern and where the soldiers are situated.”

Five minutes later, they all left the office to debrief Roche’s men on the upcoming mission. As they were walking out, Geralt got Evie’s attention and she stayed back. 

Evie spoke before he could even say anything.

“I know. I know. You want to make sure that I know to stay behind everyone, out of harm’s way.”

The witcher nodded. “You read my mind. I really wish you would’ve gone with Lydial to wait with our horses outside of town.”

“We discussed this, Geralt. What if we can find Claude but can’t break him out? I need to be there so that I can talk with him.”

“I know, and I agree. I just don’t like it.” He sighed deeply. “But, then again, it has been about four days since you were last in mortal danger so…I guess we’re past due.”

She gave him a small smile. “I’d laugh if it weren’t so true.” 

oOo

Geralt paused and turned around. He saw the long line of men behind him. Leading everyone through the dark caverns, it had taken him twice as long to reach the Redanian ambush site as when he’d been alone. He had walked extra slowly to ensure that no one behind him stumbled. Noise discipline was crucial if they were going to pull this off. Since they were easily outnumbered two-to-one, then surprising the Redanians was their only chance of walking out of those catacombs alive.

oOo

Ratibor was finally able to wriggle one hand free from the ropes. He reached up and pulled the gag from his mouth.

“Hang on, boys,” he whispered to his fellow bank guards. “Another minute and we’ll all be loose. And then we’ll go find those bastards.”

oOo

The White Wolf was kneeling on the cavern floor at the edge of the wider area where the Redanians were hiding. This wider area was about fifty feet long and bottle-necked at both ends. He reached into a small satchel on his belt, removed a violet-colored potion, and quickly downed it. In addition to the satchel at his waist, he also had two bandoliers crisscrossing his chest, and attached to both were of a variety of bombs. He unclipped three, holding one in his right hand and two in his left. He turned his head and looked behind him at Roche and all his men. The witcher could easily sense the adrenaline already flowing through them in anticipation of the battle. 

Geralt stood and looked to his left and right one final time and inhaled deeply. He exhaled slowly, and as he came to its end, he tossed the three Devil’s Puffball explosives towards the Redanians on his right as quickly as possible. When the bombs made contact with the hard ground and nearby rocks, there was no huge explosion. However, in the quiet cavern, the cannisters cracking was loud enough to get everyone’s attention and, suddenly, the Redanian soldiers jumped to the ready.

Before the soldiers on the right had even begun to feel the effects of the poisonous gas enveloping them, Geralt had thrown three more bombs – Dragon’s Dream – towards the men on the left. Like the first three bombs, these three did not emit any bright light when they detonated. Thus, the cavern – though now noisy with men’s gagging, coughing, and shouting – was still completely dark. 

As soon as the third Dragon’s Dream had left his hand, Geralt took off in a sprint along the left-hand side of the cavern. As he ran by those soldiers, he held his left arm straight out to his side and signed a continuous stream of Igni flame. The flammable gas from the bombs immediately exploded in a violent, fiery blast, engulfing almost all the Redanians on that side of the cave. The soldiers who didn’t catch on fire were still severely singed from the explosion. 

Now that dozens of flame-covered bodies were illuminating the entire cavern, the witcher knew he was no longer concealed by the darkness so he cast a Quen Sign as he came to the northern end of the ambush site. He immediately turned and threw a Dancing Star bomb high in the air above the coughing Redanians on his original right. The explosive detonated against the stalactites on the cavern’s ceiling. As large chunks of rock were falling down on top of the soldiers, Geralt was already grasping several more bombs and tossing them towards soldiers on both sides of the cavern.

The Dragon’s Dream gas exploding into flames had been the Temerians’ signal to engage. They fled into the area – on the opposite end of where the witcher was now standing – and began filling every non-Quen-protected individual with as many crossbow bolts as possible. 

oOo

Upon hearing the sound of explosions echoing through the catacombs and up into the palace dungeons, Radovid’s giant-sized body-guards, Ivan and Igor, looked at each other. They immediately knew something was amiss. Their king’s orders to Winski had been to capture – not kill. Possessing the intuitive connection that characterized many identical twins, Ivan and Igor didn’t even bother speaking. They simply nodded to the other, lowered the visors on their helms, and rushed down into the dark cavern. 

oOo

Roche gave a battle cry, and he – with his men – drew their swords and charged into Redanians. The good news was that Geralt’s surprise attack had incapacitated over half of them. The bad news was that there was nearly two dozen of Radovid’s soldiers still alive, and they were desperately fighting to stay that way. Captain Winski was a battle-hardened soldier, and he quickly rallied his troops for the melee. And, fortunately for them, they had already been warned that their enemy would be wearing Redanian uniforms. Thus, there’d be no hesitation on their part to strike with lethal intentions.

oOo

“Damn it,” Geralt cursed to himself. 

The witcher stood on the north end of the cavern, temporarily isolated from the main fight on the south end. The last bomb that he’d tossed had knocked several large chunks of stalactites from the ceiling. The dust it had thrown up into the air obscured his vision, and he wanted to wait a few seconds for it to dissipate. Charging blindly into battle was a quick way to the grave – even for a witcher. Plus, with both sides wearing Redanian uniforms, he didn’t want to kill any Temerians by accident.

He was standing there, protected by his Quen, and about to rush into the fray when he felt a light thump against his back. It wasn’t painful at all, but immediately his Quen shield disappeared. He turned around and saw, entering the cavern from a narrow passageway, two of the biggest men he’d ever seen in his life. Malek would have looked normal-sized next to them. They had swords and shields drawn, heading his way. In addition to their size, he also noticed that they were wearing heavy, full plate armor from head to toe. Other than horizontal eye-slits and some holes near the mouth and nose to aid in breathing, even their faces were completely protected. 

He tried to cast another Quen, but when nothing happened, he cursed again. Dimeritium, he thought to himself. It made sense. As paranoid as Radovid was against magic users, the White Wolf wouldn’t be surprised if all of his soldiers had some type of magic-inhibiting weapons on their person. 

Suddenly, he heard the sound of deep chuckling reverberating out of the two giants’ helms.

“Ohhh…what’s wrong, witcher? Can the freak not use his magic?” asked one in a mocking tone.

“You’ll have to face us like a man…no mutant tricks…just swords,” said the other. “We’ll see who wins then.”

The two giants slowed as they neared the witcher, and then they began to circle him, one moving to his left and the other to his right. 

oOo

Both Evie and Benny were crouched behind cover in the narrow, bottle-necked area. Neither had any skill in wielding a sword, and even though Evie possessed a cross-bow she didn’t want to blindly shoot it into the crowd. Thus, they had both stayed back when Roche and the others had charged ahead. Several Redanian corpses were on the ground still burning brightly and giving off just enough illumination that the combatants could see their enemies. 

Evie’s eyes scanned the melee in front of her, but she couldn’t see her husband anywhere. The soldiers’ shouts and the clanging of metal on metal was echoing off the cavern walls so loudly that, at first, she didn’t hear Benny yelling her name right next to her. He grabbed her by the shoulder to get her attention.

“Evie!” he yelled again. “We’ve got trouble.”

She saw him pointing to his right. A group of eight men, carrying torches and swords, were running up the passageway towards the melee. She recognized them immediately - the guards from the bank. 

oOo

Geralt ducked as an enormous, long-sword hissed through the air above him. He immediately dodged to his left as a second, identical sword sliced downward right where he’d been standing. He spun to his right and slashed his steel weapon across Ivan’s shoulder, but his blade barely made a scratch against the heavy armor. He quickly rolled away as Igor brought his blade downward to cleave the witcher in two. 

“Is that the best the little man can do?” mocked Ivan. “You’re a wee man with a wee sword.”

“You can’t run forever, little man,” added Igor.

The witcher came to his feet and turned toward the two Redanians. As they were starting their second approach, he quickly whirled between the two giants. His blade whipped around him, and sparks flew as it struck their armor a half-a-dozen times. He came out of his whirl and immediately rolled away, just avoiding their massive swords being swung in his direction. He had actually felt the wind brush his hair as one blade just missed splitting his skull. As he faced the two men, he, once again, heard more mocking laughter.

“Impressive dancing, freak. But your little witcher sword can’t beat true Redanian knight’s armor.”

“He’s like a little gnat, Igor. Buzzing around, but nothing more than a nuisance.”

“Keep buzzing, little gnat. We’ll swat you in time.”

Geralt realized that the two men – even while wearing the heavy armor - were incredibly quick for their size. And just as importantly, they seemed to work well together. And given the strength of these men, he doubted if his armor would make a bit of difference against their steel. He might as well have been wearing a light, cotton shirt and trousers. He couldn’t afford a single mistake against these two. Just one slip of the foot, just one dodge in the wrong direction or a split-second too late, and he’d be cut in half. 

While keeping his eyes on the threat in front of him, he brought his hand up to his chest and quickly ran it across both bandoliers. He cursed under his breath when he realized that they were both almost completely empty. With his fingertips, he could only feel two explosives remaining. He blindly grabbed one of them and backhand tossed it at the giant on his left. The bomb shattered against his shield, and Geralt immediately cursed again. It was a Dragon’s Dream, which was pretty much worthless since he needed a fire to ignite the gas and he couldn’t cast an Igni at the moment. 

“I think he’s getting desperate, Ivan.”

“Keeping buzzing, little gnat. You’ll tire soon.”

The two men were again slowly approaching the witcher. They swung their swords at the same time. Geralt dodged to his right, parrying the sword on that side. He spun close to Igor and threw his right hand upward, ringing the pommel of his sword off of the man’s metal helm, hoping to disorient his opponent. It clearly didn’t work, for the witcher was knocked backward at least ten feet as Igor connected with a massive backhand punch with his shield-covered arm. Geralt flew through the air, and as he hit the ground, he rolled back onto his feet, immediately expecting their next attack. He didn’t have to wait long.

Igor chuckled as the two giants circled the witcher.

“Ha! I swat you, little gnat.”

They attacked a third time, with the exact same results as before – the witcher just barely dodging their blades and his own blade doing no damage at all. 

“I think he’s slowing, Igor.”

“Yes, it will not be much longer, brother.”

The cat-and-mouse game went on for only one more turn – with Geralt using his incredible reflexes and dexterity to avoid their attacks but also not able to penetrate their thick armor – before the witcher realized he’d have to change his tactics. Their plate was just too thick. And they were right. He could feel his muscles starting to tire. It was just a little, but a little was all it would take for him to taste death down in those catacombs.

His eyes scanned the two giants, looking for weaknesses, and he quickly knew what he’d have to do. He would need to draw them in closer.

oOo

Evie aimed and fired her crossbow again. While, at this point, she couldn’t distinguish Roche’s men from the Redanians, it was obvious to her who the bank guards were due to their uniforms. She was having no trouble differentiating one from another since they had dropped their torches before joining the fight and the flames were lighting up the surroundings. Though there was now enough illumination in the cavern for all combatants to see, the battle itself had turned into total chaos. Since everyone there was wearing similar Redanian garb, the bank guards didn’t know who was who and just began attacking whomever was closest. At several points, a Redanian and Temerian actually teamed-up, turning and fighting side-by-side against an attacking bank guard. 

Several men died due to the guards’ unexpected attack from behind, but given how heavily they were outnumbered, the eight bank guards all quickly perished. At that point, Winski and Roche’s men continued their fight against each other. Evie really had no idea how the battle was going – which side was winning – but she could clearly hear Roche’s voice as he barked out orders and encouragement to his men. 

oOo

Ivan and Igor were circling the witcher again. Ivan, on the witcher’s left, swung his blade horizontally while Igor’s sword – a fraction of a second later – slashed downward.   
Geralt sidestepped away from one attack and parried the other. Time seemed to stand still as the three of them watched the witcher’s sword fly through the air and land fifteen feet away on the cavern floor.

The two Redanians turned to look at the witcher, who was simply standing there very still, his hands down at his sides. One of the two giants then unexpectedly sheathed his sword and dropped his shield. 

“The little gnat is mine, Igor. I’m going to crush him with my bare hands,” said Ivan as he slowly moved to the witcher’s left while Igor – with his sword still drawn – moved to the right.

In the shadows of the dark cavern, neither man could see the tiniest of smiles come to the witcher’s face. Immediately, Igor swung his blade at Geralt, and a spit-second later, Ivan lunged forward to catch the witcher in his mighty grip. The White Wolf both side-stepped Igor’s blade and rolled under Ivan’s out-stretched arms and towards the giant. As he was in mid-roll, he reached down to his thigh and unsheathed his knife. He came to his feet – but still in the crouched position – right next to Ivan’s out-stretched leg. With a swift back-handed motion, the monster-slayer drove his knife blade deep into the back of the Redanian’s knee – just sliding it through the gap between two pieces of armor. The witcher was already rolling away - just avoiding Igor’s second sword attack - before he even registered Ivan roaring out in pain. Geralt came out of his roll on the balls of his feet and saw that Ivan was down on one knee and struggling to stand. 

For the first time since the battle had started, the witcher spoke.

“Careful…this gnat can bite.” When neither man responded, he said, “What? No more witty banter?”

Igor looked at his injured brother and then back to the witcher.

“I will kill you,” he snarled.

“Come and get me.”

As Igor slowly and cautiously approached the witcher, Geralt glanced down to his bandolier and smiled as he recognized his last remaining bomb - a Samum. Instantly, he grasped the explosive in his left hand and back-hand tossed it toward his attacker. The bomb detonated against Igor’s shield, the white-light explosion temporarily blinding the giant of a man. The witcher immediately took three, swift steps forward, and on the third step, he bent low, his right knee touching the ground. His face was only about a foot from the Redanian’s codpiece when he swung his right arm in an upward arc, driving the knife into giant’s unprotected groin area – just between the codpiece and the thigh armor. 

Igor screamed in agony, but the witcher wasn’t done. He quickly withdrew the knife, reached up and grabbed the forearm of the Redanian’s sword arm with his left hand, and then thrust his knife into a slight gap near the large man’s elbow. Geralt twisted the blade as he withdrew it, slicing through tendons and ligaments. This elicited another howl of pain and caused the giant to drop his blade. 

The White Wolf immediately rolled twice – once away from Igor, and then the second time, over towards his steel sword. He scooped it up and came to his feet in one, smooth motion. He turned to face Ivan who was now standing but also struggling to put weight on his right leg. Then, the Redanian bellowed a battle rage, and despite the injury to his knee, he ran at the witcher. The monster-hunter, crouching low and on the balls of his feet, stood perfectly still as Ivan charged at him. At the last instant, as Ivan was bringing down his sword towards the witcher’s head, Geralt deftly moved diagonally – forward and to the left. Ivan’s blade slashed through the air and, missing its intended target, dug deeply into the ground of the cavern. The witcher shot his left fist forward and slammed it into the back of the giant’s right shoulder. That punch, along with the momentum of the attack, caused Ivan to be completely facing away from the White Wolf. In a flash, the witcher stepped forward and bent low, and once again, swung his knife in an upward arc. The blade found the flesh of Ivan’s groin. As the giant screamed and fell forward on the ground, Geralt withdrew his knife and then jammed it into the back of Ivan’s left knee - again, right in the gap between the armor. The witcher didn’t think the man would stand again – ever.

Geralt heard a noise behind and immediately rolled to his left without even looking. He sensed a blade swishing overhead, and when he came to his feet, he saw that the other giant had dropped his shield and was now wielding his sword in his left hand. Igor swung his blade again, but it was very uncoordinated in his off-hand, and the witcher easily side-stepped the attack. The next two attacks the White Wolf simply parried. The giant was moving slowly, his groin injury clearly affecting him. On Igor’s next attack, Geralt - still holding his sword in his left hand - parried the blade to the side as he pirouetted towards the giant. As he came out of his spin and was facing the Redanian, he brought his right hand up high and plunged his knife blade right through the eye-slit of the man’s helm. He quickly pulled the knife free and skipped away from his adversary. He looked at the giant who was just standing there, silent and still. The witcher was prepared for the man to attack again, when a second later, the Redanian fell face-forward, slamming into the cavern floor. 

The witcher quickly sheathed both his sword and knife and then picked up Igor’s large weapon. The giant had easily wielded it with one hand, but for most men, given its weight, it could have only been used as a two-handed sword. The White Wolf walked over to the still-prone Ivan, who was moaning in agony from his injuries. 

“You were right, funny man. My sword did nothing against your armor. But, my little knife…it stings like a bitch, doesn’t it?”

Upon hearing Geralt’s voice above him, Ivan immediately swung his left arm out, attempting to grab the witcher by the leg and drag him down. But the monster-slayer was too smart for that. He’d expected the move and easily hopped back out of reach. Ivan then pushed his upper torso off the ground with his massive arms and turned his head, looking up at his adversary. The Butcher of Blakiven sneered.

“Now, let’s see how your dead brother’s blade will fare, shall we?”

The witcher brought the heavy, great-sword high above his head and, with incredible force and a guttural grunt, he swung downward towards the giant’s neck. To the witcher’s disappointment, Ivan’s head did not fly off from his body, but the blade did completely slice through the chainmail that was supposed to protect the back of the giant’s neck in the small gap where the helm and body armor did not meet. The Redanian’s body fell to the ground limp and dead, the blade of the sword stuck in place.

The White Wolf gave a short nod of his head. 

“It’ll do.” 

At that point, the witcher turned his focus to the southern part of the cave, where Redanians and Temerians were still in the middle of their own battle. He let go of the giant’s sword, unsheathed his own, and then ran towards the melee.

  
  
oOo

Evie was staring at the carnage in front of her. Almost everyone down in the cavern was dead or wounded. She watched Roche prowling around, and whenever he came across a still-breathing Redanian lying on the ground, he’d drive his sword through their heart. Part of her wanted to protest, but the guilt was eating away at her, and she suddenly seemed to have lost the backbone to stand up to the commando. As if reading her mind, the Temerian – after finishing off the last living Redanian - turned and strode purposefully towards her, Geralt, and Benny.

Ves looked up and saw him heading that way and said, “Roche, don’t.” But he paid her no mind so she ran up alongside of him.

“Dureb, Harkel, and Nueman,” said Roche in a soft but clearly angry tone as he stopped in front of Evie.

“What?” she asked.

“Dureb…Harkel…Nueman,” he annunciated very slowly. “I don’t know who else of my men may have died by the bank guards’ hands, but I know that those three did. Those were three damn-fine soldiers and damn-fine patriots. Dead…because of your bleeding, pacifist heart. Live with that,” he growled out.

“Roche, that’s uncalled for,” said Benny.

The witcher unsheathed his sword. “Back the hell off, or I will kill you.” 

Evie reached out to grab Geralt’s right arm. “No, Geralt, don’t. He’s right.”

He turned to look at his wife. She nodded her head ever so slightly and looked him in the eyes. “He’s right,” she repeated in a whisper.

The Temerian just glared at the two of them.

“Witcher, whatever you owed me, whatever I owed you…we’re even now. We’re done.”

He looked at Evie with contempt and shook his head several times. 

“Let’s go, Ves,” he said as he turned and marched back to where his three other still-living commandos were huddled. 

“It was great meeting you, Benny,” said Ves sadly, giving the mage a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Geralt,” she said, offering her hand. The witcher paused for a moment before moving his sword to his left hand. He then reached out and grasped hers. “We couldn’t have made it down here without you…so, thanks.”

The witcher just nodded.

“Ves, let’s go!” yelled Roche from the other side of the cavern.

Ves glanced at Evie but didn’t say anything. She quickly shifted her eyes back to Geralt.

“See you around, Witcher,” she said with a smile as she started backing away. “Who knows what the future holds, right?” 

With that, she turned and sauntered over to her fellow Temerians. Almost immediately, the five of them moved northward through the cavern, towards the palace, aiming to kill a king. 

“It’s not your fault, Evie. Roche is just upset right now,” said Benny.

Evie didn’t respond. Her head was lowered and she was staring down at the floor of the cavern.

“Geralt?” she whispered.  
  
The witcher sheathed his blade and turned to look at his wife.

“Yeah?”

“Just how many people are going to die because of me?” she asked, her voice breaking.

Geralt stepped forward and pulled her into a hug. She immediately started crying so Benny walked away. 

oOo

“Oh…no,” said Evie, her voice full of anguish.

“This him?” asked Geralt, holding a man’s head upright so that she could see his face.

She just nodded, afraid that her voice would betray her if she tried to speak again.

It hadn’t taken the witcher long to scout out the dungeons of Radovid’s palace, find and subdue the dungeon keeper and his assistants, and confiscate their keys. The three of them had then spent the next ten minutes looking through all the cells for Claude – Evie’s ex-husband and one of the Continent’s foremost experts in archeology.

Claude was currently hanging limply against one of the stone walls in the cell. If he had once been a healthy and handsome man, he wasn’t anymore. His arms were stretched out above him and his feet were a good distance from the floor. His wrists and ankles were shackled to chains that ran through four separate iron hoops that were attached to the wall. All of those chains were connected to a larger one that ran through a pulley near the ceiling, keeping him suspended off the floor. 

“Benny, hit that lever,” said Geralt, pointing to one side of the cell.

Benny did so, and Claude’s body collapsed into Geralt’s waiting arms. The witcher laid him down gently on the floor and then removed the iron shackles from his wrists and ankles. 

“Is he dead?” asked Evie, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Geralt looked up at her. He could see the fear all over her face. 

“No, I can hear his heartbeat…but it’s not strong.” He turned to his friend. “Benny, we’re definitely going to need you.” 

The mage knelt down next to Claude. He mumbled a spell to himself and both of his hands suddenly glowed with a purple light. He then placed his hands about an inch from Claude’s head. After a moment, he began moving his hands over other areas of the archeologist’s body. 

“He’s alive but just barely,” Benny said as he continued the examination. “I don’t sense any major injuries, per se, but he’s clearly dehydrated and malnourished. There’s no telling when he was last given food or water. More concerning is that his body also seems to be flush with infection. Who knows how long it’s been attacking his brain and other organs.”

“Can you save him?” asked Evie.

“I…I don’t know,” he replied, looking up at her. 

“Well, do what you can,” said Geralt, standing up. “I’m gonna check the halls. Make sure we don’t have any surprises.”

Geralt shut the cell-door behind him, withdrew his steel sword, and then began silently moving through the dungeons. He listened closely and could just pick up the sound of men shouting somewhere way above him in the palace. It sounded as if the situation was frantic up above, but, luckily, no one was fleeing down into the dungeons just yet. Five minutes later, when the witcher returned to the cell and opened the door, he saw Evie and Benny both kneeling next to Claude. Evie had her head bowed down, and it was clear she was crying again. As Geralt sheathed his sword, Benny got to his feet and walked over to where the witcher was standing.

Geralt looked at Benny, and the mage just shook his head.

“He’s too far gone for my magic to bring him back. If we were near a Place of Power, then I could tap into it and maybe heal him enough to, at least, bring him back to consciousness. But I don’t sense any additional power down here, and I doubt he’ll last another half day even if we could carry him out of here.”

Geralt looked over Benny’s head at Evie. He cursed to himself. She was already beating herself up over the deaths of Roche’s men, and now this. He stared at his crying wife for several moments longer and then nodded his head. As he looked back down at Benny, he reached up and grabbed his wolf-head medallion. 

“What about this?” he asked in a whisper, looking the mage in the eye. “Could you tap into my medallion’s magic and save him?”

Benny paused for a second before answering. Then, he nodded.

“Yeah, theoretically. But, Geralt…afterward, it’d be inert. Nothing but an ordinary piece of jewelry. Are you sure?” asked the sorcerer in a whisper of his own.

The witcher nodded. “But let’s keep it to ourselves. In her emotional state right now, it wouldn’t surprise me if she wanted to fight me on it.”

“Got it.”

Geralt looked at his wife again and then quickly removed his medallion. He handed it to Benny, who palmed it. 

“Evie,” said Benny, turning around. “I’m going to need you to come over here by Geralt. I’m going to try one more spell, but it’s very powerful, and I don’t want you near me when I do it, okay?”

She looked over at the two of them and nodded her head. As she was walking towards Geralt, Benny moved back to Claude’s side. He knelt down, and Geralt saw him place the medallion on the floor between his knees so that it couldn’t be seen by Evie. He looked over at Geralt again, as if asking for a final confirmation. Upon seeing Geralt give a nod, he turned back to Claude and began speaking a long and intricate spell. 

Evie’s eyes went wide as she saw the light around Benny’s hands grow much brighter than they had before. She could feel the air in the dungeon cell change, and the hair on her arms and neck started to stand on end. She immediately looked up at Geralt. He looked down at her and nodded.

“It’s the Power. He’s harnessing a lot.”

She shivered uncontrollably. It felt as if a thousand, ice spiders were crawling across her skin. She stared in fascination as she watched Benny lower his hands toward Claude’s body. As the mage kept chanting the spell, Claude’s entire body began to glow. This continued for several minutes, and with each passing second, Evie felt more and more uncomfortable. She sensed a great pressure on her body, as if an invisible force was pressing in on all sides, and she started to feel pain in her abdomen. Suddenly, just when she didn’t think she could take any more of it, the glowing light blinked out and Benny collapsed, falling forward across Claude’s chest. 

“Benny!” she yelled. 

She and Geralt rushed forward, and he grabbed Benny and turned him over so that he could lie supine. 

Evie sat on the floor. “Geralt, rest his head in my lap.”

The witcher did as he was asked, and she looked down at her friend. A slow trickle of blood was running from both of his nostrils. She reached down to stroke his cheek and was shocked by how cold he was. She looked up at Geralt, fear in her eyes.

“Geralt, he’s freezing! What do we do?” 

“Baby, I…I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. He then reached up and felt the mage’s neck. “Damn it, he’s got no pulse.”

“Geralt,” she cried, tears coming to her eyes anew. “He can’t die, too!”

Suddenly, the witcher had the craziest idea. 

“Get up!” he yelled to Evie. “Get away from him!”

He grabbed Benny and pulled him away from Claude. He then reached down and grabbed the front of his vest. He pulled the two sides apart, the vest’s buttons flying through the air. He then did the same to Benny’s shirt. Evie was now standing, looking down at her husband and her friend – the mage’s chest completely exposed. 

“What are you doing?” she asked frantically.

Geralt instantly thought back to the new witcher Sign that he’d been working on since last fall. The new Sign with which he’d surprised Eskel. He’d never actually used it in a real fight because that was not the time for experiments, but now…

“I have no idea,” he answered back. “Just stay away. Whatever you do, don’t touch him.”

He knelt next to Benny and rested his palm against his chest. He maneuvered his fingers into a special configuration, and with all the will-power that he possessed, he thought of lightning. 

Immediately, he felt a charge at the end of his hand. Pain shot up his arm at the same time that Benny’s body spasmed on the floor.

“Son of a bitch!” the witcher growled, shaking his hand back and forth and then flexing it several times. 

He looked down and saw a blackened palm-print on Benny’s chest over his heart. He quickly reached up and checked his pulse. Still nothing.

He put his hand back over Benny’s heart again and looked at his wife. He gave her a nervous smile. 

“Maybe not so much intensity on this one.” 

He cast the Sign and sent another bolt of lightning – this one not near as powerful or painful - into Benny’s heart. The mage’s body jerked again. The witcher then reached up again to check for a heartbeat. He kept his fingers on Benny’s neck for five, ten, then fifteen seconds.

“Well?” she asked.

The witcher looked up at his wife and then slowly smiled. He let out a half-laugh, half-exhalation.

“It worked. I don’t know how, but it worked.”

Evie immediately knelt down next to Geralt and hugged him as she cried tears of relief. She then turned to Benny and put her right hand on his chest, which was now slowly rising and falling. As she watched her friend breathe, she grasped Geralt’s hand with her left and squeezed hard. 

“Evangeline?” came a hoarse voice. “Is that you?”

Evie immediately jerked her head towards Claude, whose eyes were now open and focused on his ex-wife. She couldn’t help herself. Overwhelmed by it all, she started crying again.

“Excellent,” said Geralt. “You’re awake.”

Claude raised himself up and rested on an elbow. He looked at the bare-chested, unconscious man lying next to him. He looked at his crying ex-wife. And then he looked at the frightening, white-haired man who was clearly a witcher. 

“Yeah,” he answered. “I’m awake. Very confused…but awake. Who are you?”

“Geralt of Rivia, and we need to know everything you know about the Sword of Destruction.”

“The Sword of Destruction?” He looked at Evie and then back at the witcher. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“Do I look like I ever kid?” growled the witcher.

Claude looked at the twin swords on his back, the armor spotted with blood, the incredibly scarred face, and the fierce, cat-like eyes boring into his own. 

“No…no, you don’t.” 


	29. Chapter 29

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 17

_Southern Tretogor_

Two hours after rescuing Claude from the palace dungeons, Geralt, Evie, and Benny finally made their way out of the catacombs and rendezvoused with Lydial and Barcain south of the city, and then the six of them headed east, pushing their horses hard under the cover of darkness. East was the opposite direction that they ultimately needed to go, but at that point, they wanted to get away from the Nilfgaardian invasion as quickly as possible, and they figured east was their best bet to do so. They weren’t alone in those thoughts. They passed hundreds of frantic Tretogorian peasants – and displaced Novigradians - fleeing the city on foot. Only time would tell if the city’s rich and privileged would stay protected behind the walls or would decide to flee, as well.

Once they reached the forest located north of Rinde, Geralt felt more at ease since the thick woods gave them concealment from anyone in pursuit – not that he thought there was an actual pursuit. And when it finally dawned on him just where they were, he also became very reflective. Being back in that forest brought to mind the last time he’d been there, fighting – and burying – the giant-sized, rock troll. He shook his head when he realized that that event had only been a year ago. It seemed like a lifetime. He was amazed at just how much had changed in those twelve months. It had been, without a doubt, the darkest time in his life. He had been so overcome with grief due to Ciri’s death that he’d really wanted to do nothing else but die. And then he thought about where he was now – mentally, emotionally…and spiritually. Just the fact that he even thought of himself in a spiritual sense was evidence of how much he’d changed, and he knew that he owed God his gratitude for that awakening. He was convinced that Essea was responsible for his complete turn-around. In Geralt’s mind, there simply was no earthly explanation for it. It was only now, in retrospect, that the witcher could see Essea’s at-the-time invisible hand working in all the details of his life in the past year. Even though he still had questions and doubts about who Essea was and what his ultimate plans were, he found himself talking to God more and more often – especially in the middle of the night when he stayed up watching over the others – specifically Evie – as they slept for a few brief hours, getting much-needed rest from their escape from the war-ravaged land. 

It was during these travels that Evie explained to Claude their ultimate mission and why he had been jailed and interrogated by Radovid. She showed him the Essean tome that she’d stolen, and they spent hours discussing it, its implications, and how the details inside might just relate to the Sword of Destruction. 

“Tell me again about this sword,” said Barcain in a quiet voice that first night around their cold campsite. 

Since they were still in Radovid-controlled territory, they had been staying off main roads, and when they had stopped that night, Geralt had suggested no campfire. Thus, except for the witcher, they could just barely make out each other’s faces from the moon and stars’ illumination shining through the tree branches. After sitting down in a tight circle, Geralt had listened closely to the surroundings. Even though he told them he couldn’t hear any human sounds close by – there was only the noise of forest creatures scuttling through the underbrush and their horses neighing softly nearby – he still recommended that they all whisper.

“Well, not a lot is known,” Claude started. “But a couple of documents have been found that date back to over a thousand years ago.”

“Dad had one,” Evie added.

“Had?” asked Benny. “You don’t have it?”

She shook her head. “No. After he and mom were murdered, I eventually made it back down to Vicovaro, but their house had been ransacked. A lot of things stolen. I don’t know if it was the murderers who also stole everything or if others looted the place afterward. But, either way, a lot of stuff was missing. I spent one full day in his library going through his collection. There were several books and journals of his missing, and that was one of them. I specifically looked for it because it was one of his most prized books.”

“Did you ever read it?” asked Benny.

“Yeah, once, when I was a teenager.”

“Really? What did it say?” asked the mage.

Evie sighed. “I’ll be honest, I don’t remember any of the details of it. I read it twenty years ago, and at the time I didn’t take it seriously. I just thought it was a fairy-tale.”

“So, Claude, do you know what these documents say about this sword?” Barcain asked.

“Well, the text that I had the chance to read was found in an excavation site in the far southwestern part of Aedirn,” said Claude. “It was near the Mahakam Mountains, a few miles outside of current-day Aldersberg. It appeared to be a man’s diary, and it wasn’t in the best condition. Like I said, our best guess was that it dates back to around the first or second century. The diary’s owner never saw the Sword himself. He just wrote down the news he’d hear from travelers who passed through his town.”

“So, as you said, this sword could be nothing but a folk-tale, right?” Benny asked Evie.

“Yes. And a very obscure one at that since most people have never even heard of it. In the circles of academia – history and archeology - it’s always been considered nothing but a myth,” she answered.

“I’ve always thought it was,” said Claude to everyone. 

“So, what exactly did this diary say?” asked Geralt.

“Well, it was odd. The diary owner wrote that the Aen Seidhe were in the middle of an incredible civil war, which goes against everything we historians have ever known about the Aen Seidhe. The elves have more or less always had a contentious relationship with humans, true, but not really amongst themselves. Or, at least, that’s what I always thought – until today.” He looked at Lydial at that point.

“Well, you’re not alone. Until recently, I had never heard or read of an Aen Seidhe civil war, either,” Lydial said. “I knew that after we came to this land, we eventually separated into clans and moved into different areas of the Continent. But I’d never heard about any of those tribes fighting amongst themselves…until I read Evie’s tome. A civil war is referred to in there.” 

“And this possible civil war is important – why exactly?” asked Benny.

“Well,” answered Claude, “because, according to the diary, it apparently revolved around who possessed this Sword. The stories this man was told – and wrote down – were fantastical. Tales of a magical sword, capable of wiping out entire armies of elves.”

“Just elves?” asked Geralt. “Were the Aen Seidhe not using it to kill humans, too?”

“Possibly…and given the history between the elves and humans, you’d think so,” said Claude. “But the diary never mentions the Aen Seidhe attacking human towns. Just each other.”

“That’s…strange,” whispered the witcher.

Claude nodded in agreement.

“Well, remember,” said Evie, “this was, in theory, only happening a hundred years or so after the Conjunction of the Spheres. At that point, the human population wasn’t what it is now. The Aen Seidhe were still the dominate race back then. Perhaps, the humans weren’t attacked simply because they just weren’t that significant yet – weren’t yet considered a threat.”

“You mentioned magic,” interjected Barcain. “What kind of magic could the Sword do?”

Claude shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Call down fire from the skies? Rend the earth apart? Who knows? Like I said, there’s never been any corroborating, physical evidence of its existence. It’s always been considered a myth.”

“If the Sword was so powerful, then how was it possible to even have a civil war. It seems to me that whoever possessed it would just wipe out all his enemies no problem, right?” asked Benny. “I mean, who could actually fight back against something like that?”

“I agree,” said Claude. “The diary I read didn’t address that. Or, if it did, then it was on the pages that had disintegrated. The diary wasn’t in the best condition.”

“Perhaps the only thing that could stand up to the Sword’s power and magic was other magic. Maybe that’s why the Aen Seidhe initially began researching the Power. Historically – and even recently – we have had some very impressive magic-users,” said Lydial.

“This is real interesting and all,” voiced Geralt, “but the main question is – where is the Sword now?”

Claude looked at Evie, and she took over the story.

“This is what Claude and I have been discussing for the last day. The diary he read and Dad’s journal both date back to around the same time – the late first to early second century. After that, as far as history is concerned, the Sword is never mentioned again. Thus, that’s when we think it went missing – somehow.” 

She then held up the Essean tome that had been resting on her lap. “In here, it talks about an invasion of the Continent by an unknown, foreign force. And this foreign army supposedly defeated and captured most of the Aen Seidhe tribes. This event was apparently called The Great Exile by the Aen Seidhe. And just when did this invasion and exile take place?” She slowly looked at everyone. “During the second century – the same time we think the Sword vanished.”

“So, you think this foreign nation not only conquered the Aen Seidhe but also stole the Sword?” asked Barcain. “Doesn’t sound like the Sword was that powerful then?”

“Well, obviously, we don’t know. These are just educated guesses. It could just be a coincidence that the exile and the Sword’s disappearance happened at the same time, but that’s a big coincidence. And we don’t really have anything else to go on. But even if the Sword wasn’t taken by this conquering nation, then perhaps the full Essean Scriptures can be found there. This thin tome I have is clearly just one of many books. Perhaps, when the Aen Seidhe went into exile, they took their complete religious scriptures with them, and if we can find them…then perhaps they’ll lead us to the Sword’s location,” she answered.

“How amazing would that be to find the complete Scriptures,” gushed Lydial. “I’d honestly rather find them than the Sword.”

Evie smiled at her grandmother and nodded in agreement. “I know.”

“So, who was this foreign nation?” asked Geralt, looking at both Evie and Claude. 

“Maybe the other tomes tell us, but this one doesn’t,” said Evie. “It just states that they were foreign invaders. That’s why I wanted to speak with Claude. Despite his relatively young age compared to others in the field, he’s one of the best and most knowledgeable there is.”

Geralt turned to look at the archeologist.

“Thanks, Evangeline,” Claude said before addressing the witcher. “My research has shown that a foreign army did, indeed, invade the Continent during the early second century. There is actual archeological proof – swords, armor, and the like. From the Gearrlon nation.”

“Gearrlon? I’ve never heard of it,” said Benny.

“Not surprising. It doesn’t exist anymore. They were supposedly conquered by the Zerrikanians many centuries ago. Some think it was close to a millennium ago.”

“A millennium?” asked Benny. “But that would have been right after they took possession of the Sword.” After a breath, he continued. “You know…I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this weapon. The Aen Seidhe had it first and look what’s happened to them. Then, the Gearrlons get it, and they get wiped out.”

“It’s called the Sword of Destruction for a reason,” whispered Evie.

No one said anything else for several long moments, just contemplating Evie’s last words. In the stillness of the night, the forest noises around them were amplified. However, they were all so focused on the implications of what they’d just discussed regarding the Sword that they didn’t even notice. Finally, the witcher broke the silence.

“If the Zerrikanians defeated them, then is it safe to assume that Gearrlon must have been somewhere east of the Tir Torchair Mountains?” asked Geralt.  
  
Claude nodded. 

The witcher looked at his wife. “And you think this Sword might be there?”

Evie looked hesitant to answer. Finally, she said, “I don’t know. And even if it is there…” she paused and gave a sigh, “I’m not even sure we should bother with it anymore.”

“What?” asked Geralt. “Why not?”

“Well, if it is there, then it’s almost half a world away. Most likely completely out of either Emhyr or Radovid’s reach. And if it’s stayed hidden this long…then maybe it just needs to stay that way. Maybe we’re messing with things that should just be left alone.”

Geralt looked closely at his wife. Something had changed. For the last month, she’d been on fire with idea of finding this sword, but now, suddenly, she was having doubts. He was definitely going to discuss this change of heart with her, but he’d do it later in private. He certainly wasn’t going to confront her in front of everyone else. 

“Well, we don’t have to decide tonight,” he finally remarked. “Right now, our immediate goal is to just get out of Redania and as far away from Emhyr and Radovid as possible. Hopefully, we’ll be in Temeria by tomorrow night.”

“From your lips to Essea’s ears,” said Lydial with a small smile. 

Benny shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Never thought I’d say these words, but I’m actually looking forward to being in Temeria of all places.”

“Yeah,” agreed Barcain. “Where your bowl of stew is served with a side of Catriona plague.”

oOo

_Cidaris_

It had taken the crew almost a week to travel from Tretogor to the capital city of the kingdom of Cidaris – also called Cidaris – on the west coast of the Continent. After sneaking across the Pontar and into Temeria in the middle of the night, they had made a hard turn to the west. Claude was desperate to find his wife and kids. After giving him the unfortunate news of Novigrad’s destruction but also the encouraging news of his family’s escape through Fringilla Vigo’s portal, he had decided to head to Oxenfurt. Given that they had friends and family there, he figured that it was their most likely destination. 

The journey was hard and took a little longer than usual for they had decided that it was still safest to stay off the main paths. Even so, they were surprised at just how little Nilfgaardian presence they came across. The peasants and farmers that they did encounter told them of the enormous Black army heading west towards the coast well over a fortnight past. They all assumed that was, most likely, the same army that had attacked Tretogor. 

The six of them eventually came to the north-south road connecting Oxenfurt and Gors Velen. It was there that Claude bid them farewell and headed north in search of his family. After saying goodbye to the others, he faced Evie.

“Whether you find the Sword or not, promise me you’ll track me down in Oxenfurt afterward. I’d love to know that you’re safe…and also to hear of your discoveries,” Claude said to Evie.

“We’ll see,” she replied with a sad smile. Then, she hugged him. “I want to say again how sorry I am for what happened to you and your family. Please ask Celeste to forgive me.”  
  
Claude chuckled. “That might be a lot to ask. She’s…well, she’s never really liked you. Not surprising, really. But you did save my life – and hers and the kids, for that matter. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, they probably would’ve died in Novigrad. That should count for something, right?” 

He then turned to the witcher and shook his hand. “Keep her safe, Geralt.”

The witcher nodded. “Count on it.”

After watching Claude ride off, the rest of the group looked at one another. They still had not made a definitive plan with regards to the Sword but, eventually, they decided to make their way to a coastal city regardless. Finding a port with a ship heading to Zerrikania would be necessary if they did, in fact, continue the hunt. And it was for that reason that they wound up in Cidaris.   
  
They found a small inn several blocks from the harbor and rented two rooms. Since money was starting to get tight and they had a possible long voyage to take, they’d chosen an inn that, after looking at its façade, Barcain said wasn’t fit for pigs. After entering the establishment and getting his first smell of the place, Benny disagreed and said that it was. However, it did possess bathtubs with lukewarm water, beds filled with mostly non-biting bugs, and plenty of semi-edible food served without a whiff of Catriona. So, all things considered, it could have been worse. After their last week in the woods, none of them complained too much about their lodgings. 

That night, the still-newlywed witcher and historian made love, but in the middle of it, Evie started to cry. 

Geralt immediately stopped and looked into her face. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Please don’t stop, Geralt. Okay? Don’t stop, please,” she pleaded, the tears running down her cheeks.

He looked at his wife with concern across his face, but eventually he nodded. “Okay,   
baby. Okay.” 

He’d never felt his wife holding onto him as tightly as she did then.  
  
Afterward, they lay spooned together, with Geralt behind Evie, her wrapped in his arms.

“You haven’t been yourself,” he said. 

She nodded. “I know.”

“Ever since Tretogor.”

She nodded again.

“Wanna talk about it?”

She was silent for a long time. Geralt held her close and just listened to her heartbeat and her breathing. Eventually, she spoke.

“Maybe not exactly, but…I think I finally know how you felt after Blaviken.”

He hadn’t been expecting her to say that. “How so?”

“You chose what you thought was the lesser evil, and events still turned out badly. You tried to do the right thing, but people still died and you were run out of town.”

“Yeah.”

“Geralt, not killing those guards in the Tretogor bank…that was the right thing, wasn’t it?”

The witcher paused to collect his thoughts.

“Evie, the more I’m around you, the more you’re rubbing off on me. And the more that I hear the voice of goodness inside of me – Essea’s voice - telling me not to kill unless it’s absolutely necessary – to not give into the dark voices. So, yes, I think sparing their lives was the right choice.”

“And, yet, had we not, had we let Roche kill them, they never could have come down in the cavern and killed Roche’s men. They could have killed you…or Benny, too.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“How do you look at it?”

“Roche should have done a better job of tying them up...so they couldn’t escape. That’s how I look at it.”

She sighed. “Yeah…maybe. But I just felt so guilty at the time. I still do. Heck, I still feel guilty about Isaac’s death and all the rest at Kaer Morhen. And hearing Roche say what he did…him accusing me…I felt like their deaths were completely my fault. Then, we found Claude…and I thought that he was dead, too. And then Benny almost died saving him.” She sighed again. “If another person dies because of me, because of what I’ve done…I think I’ll lose it.”

“And that’s why you’re doubting if we should keep searching for the Sword.”

Evie nodded. “I’m tired of feeling guilty. I don’t want the responsibility anymore. Too many people have already died because of this – because of me…because of all the decisions I’ve made.”

The witcher was quiet – for so long, in fact, that Evie eventually said, “Geralt, are you awake?”

“Yeah. I’m just thinking because…I want to make sure I say this right.”

“Okay.”

Finally, he spoke. “Do you remember our conversation in Novigrad, right before we entered the sewers, when I told you that I wanted us to run away together?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what you told me?”

After a moment, she said, “Yes…I said that finding the Sword was the right thing to do.”

When she didn’t continue, he said, “You said more than that, right?”

She sighed and nodded. “I said that I thought finding the Sword was Essea’s plan. That he was leading me…us to find it.”

At that point, Geralt crawled over Evie to the other side of the bed so that he could look into her eyes. Their faces were less than a foot apart, and she was staring right back at him.

“Right. I told you then that I didn’t sense him leading me at all with regards to this sword. And I still don’t. But I know he’s telling me to be with you, to do my damnedest to keep you safe. So, listen to me, when I tell you…that wherever you go, I go. Whether it’s to Zerrikania – after the Sword, whether it’s giving this Continent the finger and heading to the other side of the ocean, or whether it’s to our home at Corvo Bianco. Wherever God’s telling you to go, I’m going, too. Do you believe me when I tell you that?”

She nodded.

“So, the crucial question is this – do you still sense him leading you to find this sword? 

She looked him in the eyes and nodded. 

“And are you still committed to obeying and following his leading?”

She nodded again. “Yes.”

“Then, I’m sorry, baby…you may not want this responsibility anymore, but you’ve got it. For whatever reason, he’s chosen you.”

A look of resolve came to her face, but Geralt could still see worry in her eyes.

“But that doesn’t mean you’re gonna have to do it alone. You, me…Lydial and Barcain and Benny – we’re all in this together. And think about this - if Essea is leading you to do this, then it’s gotta turn out okay, right? I mean, what kind of cruel God would he be if he led you to do something that he knew would end in failure?”

“Right,” she said and then sighed again. “So, you know what this means, don’t you?”

This time Geralt nodded. “Uh huh. Tomorrow morning, we gotta find a boat heading to Zerrikania.”

She looked into his eyes and gave a small smile. “Thank you, Geralt. That was just the right thing to say.”

“Hey, I’m just as shocked as you.”

Evie’s smile grew wider, and she shook her head. “I love you, husband.”

“I love you, too, wife.”

oOo

_Krollas Forest, Redania_

“I will have his head,” Emperor Emhyr said to himself as he looked at the thick, gray smoke filling the entirety of the sky towards the southeast. 

After setting loose his magical gargolems in Novigrad, the emperor and his men had sailed north towards the Ostrynos Peninsula, the location of his main force’s amphibious assault. After destroying the meager defenses on the peninsula, almost the entirety of his army departed for Tretogor while a small unit – of just a hundred men – had stayed behind to await the emperor’s arrival. 

Upon setting foot on Redanian soil, Emhyr had calculated that he was four or five days behind the main assault force so he and his contingent had ridden hard for the capital city, hoping to arrive before Radovid’s surrender. Emhyr wanted the privilege of having the Nordling king bow down to him personally. But, now, seeing the smoke angered him. He had made it clear to his commander that razing the city should be avoided. They would need the city’s food rations and shelter if the battle turned into a siege, especially since – being in enemy territory - they would be cut off from their own supply lines.

An hour after first seeing the smoke, Emhyr and his men reached the edge of the forest, finally getting their first glimpse of Tretogor. His jaw momentarily dropped at the sight. Virtually the entire city was nothing but still-smoldering ash and ruin. But what was most disconcerting was that he couldn’t see or hear a single, living Nilfgaardian soldier anywhere. In fact, there didn’t appear to be any living souls – neither soldiers nor citizens – left in the city, at all. 

“Your Grace,” said his next-in command. “Your orders?”

Emhyr didn’t respond immediately. Finally, he said, “Take a scout team. Find my army.

Four hours later, the scout team returned and gave their report.

“All of them?” Emhyr asked.

“Yes, your Majesty. We found no survivors.”

The scout commander went on to inform the emperor that, from what he could discern, the Nilfgaardian forces had successfully breached both the city’s walls and the palace itself. For the palace was where most of the Black One corpses were found. Of course, most of them were buried under tons of rubble. The high walls and the towering keep itself had been knocked to the ground.

Emhyr didn’t know what to say. The war was lost. For even though Tretogor had fallen, he had virtually no army left. He had risked everything on this assault. While he had small garrisons of Nilfgaardian soldiers stationed throughout his empire in the various vassal states, he had sent essentially his entire fighting force – more than ten thousand men – to defeat Radovid and capture the Redanian capital. Now, the only troops at his immediate command were the hundred or so men he currently had with him. He knew that he would be crushed by the other Redanian battalions dispersed throughout the north when they eventually rallied against him. In fact, he was surprised that the Redanian troops along the Pontar River had not already arrived to counter-attack. 

Emhyr shook his head at the irony. His invasion plan had worked to perfection except for one unforeseen complication, and it was obvious what that complication was. It was clear to him – and to all of those men who had seen Novigrad burn – just what was responsible for the disaster before him. He reached into his pocket and slowly pulled out the two, metallic discs. He had wanted to keep them as a memento of his historic conquest. The two discs were no longer connected, for he had intentionally separated the magical objects from each other – with the specific purpose of deactivating the gargolems - once he set foot on Redanian soil. But, obviously, that hadn’t worked because – clearly – the magical creatures were still active and leaving destruction in their wake. 

He wondered if that had been Philippa Eilhart’s plan from the beginning – for her monstrous constructs to run amuck. Whether she actually planned it or not, her creatures had created absolute havoc for both sides, and who knew when – or even if – they’d ever stop. Perhaps she wanted them to rampage through the Northern realms until she finally put a stop to them, demonstrating to the peasants that it was she who possessed the real power of the world and should be their rightful ruler. He could picture her right now, off somewhere safe and biding her time, laughing at both his and Radovid’s downfall. He dropped the two discs to the ground, silently cursing the witch in his mind. He also cursed himself for being so foolish. Since when had trusting magic-users ever truly turned out well? 

Suddenly, his thoughts turned towards survival. He knew if his enemies back in the empire heard of this outcome, his reign would end quickly. He had to solidify his power. At his disposal, he had a hundred men who – he believed – were loyal to him. Now, more than ever, he needed that mythological sword. He wondered just where Malek was. 

oOo

  
_Montecalvo_

“Gearrlon? I’ve never heard of it. Are you sure?” asked Philippa. 

She, Oran, and one Thurston Gigglethorpe – former department head of history at Oxenfurt Academy – were sitting in her library. The professor had been there a week examining Geralt’s Essean tome and scribbling copious pages of notes. 

“Well, uh, no,” said the professor, pushing his spectacles back up his nose with his index finger. “This is just…uh…my best assumption…um…based on the data you’ve given me to peruse.” He ended the statement by reaching up and wiping several large beads of sweat from his brow.

Philippa couldn’t believe that this milquetoast professor had actually hired her brother to murder someone. He seemed afraid of his own shadow. And he certainly didn’t look impressive, with his skinny frame, weak chin, and thin hair plastered flat to his skull by his, seemingly, constant sweating condition. It was just another reminder not to judge one’s character by appearances.

“Explain to me how you came to this conclusion,” she ordered.

It was a good fifteen minutes later, after a roundabout discourse involving a half-dozen maps and several other history texts that he’d previously begged Philippa to “acquire” from the Oxenfurt Academy library, before Professor Gigglethorpe finished his lesson.

“Well, then,” said the sorceress, “I hope you two have some warm-weather clothes. It appears that we’ll be going on a trip. And Professor, this time, when we take the portal, I highly advise you not the vomit in my direction.”

Gigglethorpe gulped, nodded, and wiped more sweat from his brow.

oOo

_The Great Sea_

Benny and Geralt were by themselves on the forward deck of The Master’s Hand, the merchant ship on which they’d booked passage in the port city of Cidaris. Luckily, the cost of the trip hadn’t completely emptied their money pouches, but they had been forced to sell their horses to come up with the payment.

The ship sailed exclusively for an import-export company that dealt in exotic spices, specifically from Zerrikania. They’d set sail that morning, and now, the two friends were standing on the starboard side of the ship, resting their elbows on the railing, and watching the sun set behind the western horizon. 

“So…I’ve been meaning to ask you. Did you know what was gonna happen to you in Radovid’s dungeon when you cast that spell?” asked Geralt, glancing over at Benny. 

The mage continued looking straight ahead, staring at the scene in front of him. He gave a slight nod. 

“I knew it was a possibility. I’m not that powerful a sorcerer, Geralt. You know that. I’d only used that spell one other time, back at Ban Ard, with the aid of a Place of Power. The same thing happened then, too, but I had a couple other mages there to revive me.”

“Then, what the hell, Benny? Why’d you risk it? He was a complete stranger. You didn’t even know him.”

Benny was quiet for few moments. “Geralt, have I ever told you about my childhood?”

The witcher shook his head. “No, we’ve known each other a long time, but you never have. You from a long line of sorcerers?”

Benny glanced over at Geralt and smiled. 

“Not hardly. I was the eleventh child of Mortimer and Sally Anne Bendiak. Three of them died young, but I still grew up with seven, much older siblings. None of them were magic users. We were all simple farmers. And it was a hardscrabble life. When you live on a farm, you start working about the time you learn to talk – even if it’s nothing more than picking weeds. Everybody’s got to do their part just to survive.” 

“Must have been where you got your strong work ethic.”

“Definitely. It was a hard life, but our home was full of love. Sure, we squabbled like all families, but at the end of the day, we all cared for each other. Though, to be truthful, I was probably closer to my next-in-line sibling than I was to even mother or father. In a family that size, it was hard for mom and dad to show love to all the kids all the time. Like I said, they were just trying to keep us alive. So, my sister, Verna Kate, who was five years older than me, basically raised me.” Benny paused for a moment. “Sorry, I’m getting off-track. Anyway, growing up the youngest of the bunch – and younger by a lot of years - I never felt very useful. I was always the smallest, the weakest, the slowest. I always wished that I could do more to help them.” 

He turned his head and looked at Geralt with a sad smile. “And, then, came the day I found out I could do magic. It set me apart. Made me feel special. But, more than that, I can remember having dreams of becoming a powerful mage so that I could help out my family. We basically had no money so the Ban Ard Academy took me in on scholarship. Walking up to that giant castle – as an eight-year-old kid - was one of the happiest and scariest days of my life.”

Geralt smiled. “I bet. Hell, I was a little scared myself going in there just last month.”

“Yeah, right.” The mage then sighed. “Anyway, I soon found out I wasn’t special at all. Compared to a lot of my classmates, I was a very weak sorcerer. My work ethic was strong. I studied hard, but I just didn’t possess the natural ability to wield the Power like so many others did. Being there kind of reminded me of being back home again – being the weakest, the least useful. But I told myself that that was okay. I was there for my family. I was going to become the best mage that I could be. I’d specialize in healing and alchemy so that once I graduated, I could go back home and help my parents. Cure our livestock when they got sick. Rid our crops of harmful insects. Make our land more fertile, our well-water cleaner.”

“Sounds like a noble plan. Sounds just like you.”

Benny smiled at the compliment. 

“So, many years later, I finally graduated from the Academy. I headed home so full of pride in my accomplishments. And so full of hope for how I could help.” The mage paused and sighed again. “Long story short, I never got the chance. In one of this Continent’s many pointless wars, an invading army put a torch to the farmhouse and barn, destroyed the crops, and killed every member of my family. And I couldn’t even get revenge for them. It had happened two years before. By the time I got home, the invading army had already been beaten back and defeated.” 

Geralt shook his head. “Damn, Benny. I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “So, I turned my horse around and headed back to Ban Ard. Where I’ve been ever since. And it hasn’t been a bad life. I’ve done some good. Healed a lot of illnesses and injuries. Even saved a few lives. But I never felt like I fit in. The town folk have always kept us magic users at a distance even if they are appreciative of our services. And my fellow sorcerers…well, to them, I was just always short, fat, magically-weak Benny.”

At that point, he turned and faced his friend. “But these last few weeks have been different, Geralt. I feel like I finally belong. But, more than that, I’ve never felt more purposeful in my life than I have since you came into my shop last month. I feel like helping in the search for this sword is more meaningful than anything I’ve ever done in my life. Unlike Lydial and Evie – and even now, you – I’m not sure I really believe in Essea. Or any god for that matter. So, I’m not sure I believe that this is part of some grand plan like you do, but…that doesn’t matter. I know this is important. I know that all of you are important. And it feels good to be a part of something important. And I’m even willing to risk my life for it…and for my friends. And that’s why I did what I did in the dungeon.”

Geralt reached over and clasped his friend’s shoulder. 

“Benny, I’ve always thought you were special. Ever since you saved my life,” he said with a smile. “And we’re lucky to have you along with us. And I’m lucky that I can call you my friend.” The witcher released his grip but continued to look the mage in the eyes. “When this is all over, come to Toussaint with us. We’ve got a vineyard there, and I’ll put you on staff. We’re gonna need someone with your skills to help us out. Apparently, a fungus attacked our vines last year.” 

“Thanks, Geralt. I might take you up on the offer, but…don’t you think you need to consult with your wife first before you start giving out invitations to your home?”

Geralt pointed his finger at his friend. “Good call, Benny. Good call.”

They both laughed. 

“This marriage thing – always thinking of her first – it’s still a bit new and strange.”

“I bet. Speaking of your wife, have you told her about…” Benny asked, eyeballing the witcher’s worthless medallion.

“Told Angel about what?” asked Barcain, walking up behind the sorcerer.

Benny winced and whispered “Sorry” under his breath.

“It’s all right,” Geralt whispered back as he turned to face his brother-in-law.

“It’s no big deal. I’m going to tell her soon – once this is all over - but my medallion no longer works.” 

He then went on to explain to Barcain how that had happened.

“So, it doesn’t sense magic at all anymore?”

Geralt shook his head.

“Then, you’re right not to tell her. I guarantee you that, if she found out, she’d want to swap her medallion with yours. She cares more about your safety than her own.”

“I know. But I care more about hers than mine. And that’s why we’re not going to tell her, right?”

Barcain smiled. “No problem. I’m great at keeping secrets.”

oOo

Geralt leaned over the bed, gently shook Evie’s shoulder, and whispered softly, “Baby, wake up. I want to show you something.”

She came awake immediately. 

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Anxiety was evident in her voice.

“No, relax. It’s okay. It’s just something that I think you’ll really like.”

Five minutes later, the husband and wife were holding hands and standing on the top deck. Except for a skeleton crew - the captain at the helm, a man high up in the crow’s nest, and a couple others – Geralt and Evie were completely alone under a full moon and shining stars. Even after a week of sailing, Evie still wasn’t used to just how bright the moon and stars looked each night. And tonight, the moon looked so large and so close that she felt like she could almost reach up and grab it. There was a sturdy wind filling the sails and blowing a few strands of Evie’s hair about. She raised her hand up to her face and hooked the stray hair behind her ears. The breeze had also brought a chill to the night air. Geralt saw Evie shiver and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her in tight against his warm body.

“It’s so amazing…and peaceful out here,” remarked Evie. 

“It is,” agreed Geralt, “but I got something even more special to show you. Over here, by the railing.”

They walked over to the side, and the witcher pointed down towards the water’s surface. Evie gasped out loud. 

Swimming alongside of the ship were a half-dozen sea creatures about four to five times the thickness of an average man. They had sleek, tubular-shaped bodies that easily cut through the water. But the remarkable aspect was that each one emitted a colorful, luminescent glow – similar to when the witcher cast his Quen shield. Two were shimmering a bright yellow, two others pink, one purple, and the last one orange. 

“Oh my…Geralt…they’re so beautiful,” she said in awe.

“Watch this,” he said, and then he immediately cast a Quen, his body now covered in shimmering orange bolts of energy.

A few seconds later, the glow around each sea creature seemed to intensify – as if they were somehow answering the witcher. And then, suddenly, one of the creatures leapt high out of the water – so high that it was almost eye-level with Geralt and Evie – and then arced back down into the ocean with barely a splash. Evie laughed out loud as several more of the glowing fish followed their companion’s example and jumped into the air. They kept doing so until Geralt’s Quen Sign eventually disappeared. 

“They’re amazing,” Evie said. “Do you know what they are?” she asked, turning to look at her husband.

“Well, according to Brother Adalbert’s bestiary, their scientific name is Delphilumens, but our captain said most sailors call them, ‘Divine Light.’”

“Really? The ‘light’ part is obvious, but why ‘Divine?’”

“Well, you know how superstitious sailors are.”

“Yeah, we had to pay them extra to take on me and Nain. They think females on board are bad luck.”

“Right. Well, apparently these fellows” – and he nodded toward the glowing sea creatures – “are considered good luck. There are old tales of Divine Light fighting off krakens and other deadly sea monsters. Other myths tell of them guiding ships through storms, fog, dangerous, rocky straits. So, sailors started saying that they must be from the sea gods. Sent to protect those with whom the gods were pleased.”

“And what do sailors say one must do in order to please the sea gods?”

Geralt smiled at his wife. “I don’t know. But we must be doing something right…cause there they are.”

She smiled back at him. “Thank you, Geralt. I’m glad you woke me. They’re absolutely beautiful. I’ll never forget this as long as I live, and the best part is that I got to share it with you.”

She hugged him tightly before eventually turning back to watch the Delphilumens still swimming alongside the ship.

“Now, you gotta make a wish,” he said.

“What? Why?”

“The captain said that if they’re really pleased with you, then you can make a wish, and they’ll make it come true.”

“Really?” she asked incredulously. “He said that?”

Geralt smirked. “No. I made it up.” He laughed as she playfully and lightly elbowed him in the gut. 

“Butcher,” she said, shaking her head.

“Hey, it sounded legitimate, right?”

“Yeah, no more far-fetched than most fairy-tales.”

Evie looked down at the creatures and said, “You know what – I’m going to make a wish anyway.”

“That so?”

“Yes. I’ll start my own fairy-tale – of the wish-granting, flying glow-fish. And besides, I think they are good luck. I think Essea sent them to light our way.”

Geralt nodded. “I like the sound of that. True divine light.”

About ten minutes later, the sea creatures swam away, their luminescence eventually disappearing into the dark depths. Geralt heard Evie audibly sigh once they were completely out of sight.

“Thank you, again, Geralt.”

“For what?”

“For this…for what you said to me in Cidaris...for everything. Obeying Essea - going after the Sword is the right thing, and I needed you to remind me of that.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll always be here to support you, Evie.” He then bent down and whispered in her ear. “So…what did you wish for?”  
  
Evie looked up into his eyes and smiled. “Well, I can’t tell you that, Witcher. But…let’s go back to bed, okay?” She then began kissing him on his neck before moving up towards his ear.

“Doable,” he said, a smile coming to his face. “Definitely doable.”

oOo

It didn’t take long for Geralt and the others to find a routine on the ship. The witcher, of course, trained every day. He worked on his physical fitness and also practiced his sword forms. On the second day, when Barcain saw the witcher performing moves with the sword that he’d never seen before, he asked Geralt if he could train with him. It wasn’t long until Geralt had Evie, Lydial, and Benny on the deck with him, too. Their training wasn’t extensive, but he did give them some very simple and practical tips if they were to ever find themselves with a sword in their hands and an enemy in their midst. 

Geralt also met with Benny for several hours each day down below decks in Geralt and Evie’s tiny cabin. Calling it a cabin was a stretch. It was more like a closet, just big enough to fit a bed and two chairs. But it was sufficient for what the two men needed, which was practicing magic. Since having taught himself the new ‘lightning’ Sign last fall – Geralt had decided to call the new Sign Blyx – the witcher was curious to see if he could create any others. He wondered why the School of the Wolf only taught their witchers the five Signs since, obviously, it was possible to learn more than just those five. Not for the first time, Geralt wished Vesemir was still around. He missed the old man – not only for his companionship and dry sense of humor but also for his incredible knowledge. 

Their routine, however, didn’t just consist of the physical. They had nightly conversations about everything they knew about Zerrikania – the history, the politics, the culture, and climate. As the professional historian in the group, Evie invariably led those discussions, but everyone had some kernel of knowledge – or rumor - that they were able to share at some points. They also questioned the captain and the other sailors on what they knew of the land east of the Tir Torchair Mountains.

But probably more than anything else, they read, re-read, and discussed the Essean tome every day, hoping to glean new pieces of information that might help in their search. Geralt, himself, spent many hours each day under either Evie or Lydial’s tutelage, trying to become fluent in the obscure variant of the Elder Speech that was used in the tome. It was during one of those reading lessons - one afternoon about two weeks into their trip - that Geralt asked Lydial a question that he’d been pondering upon for a couple days.

“Lydial, I keep reading about – and hear you and Evie talk about – the grace of Essea and the mercy of Essea, and…I guess I’m a little confused. I know what justice is – when we get what we deserve. And I know what mercy is. It’s like forgiveness – when we don’t get what we deserve. But I’m not real sure what grace is. Is it the same thing as mercy? Just two words with the same meaning?”

“That’s a great question, Geralt. I would guess that a lot of people probably think that they’re the same thing…because they are very similar. But I define them differently, and I think that Essea views them differently, too. I agree with your definitions about justice and mercy, but while mercy is not receiving something that we deserve – something bad, like punishment – grace is actually receiving something – something good – that we don’t deserve. So, for example, I view my daughter, Hannamiel, and my grandchildren as evidence of God’s grace to me. I didn’t deserve to have a child and grandchildren. Essea didn’t owe me that. But he blessed me anyway, in his grace.”

Geralt nodded. “Okay, I get it. Mercy – the withholding of deserved punishment. Grace – the giving of undeserved blessings.” 

“That’s exactly right,” she answered. 

The witcher looked up into the blue, afternoon sky and gathered his thoughts for several moments before he finally spoke again. 

“You know, this is one of the main areas where I have always struggled with the concept of God.” He nodded his head towards his wife who was sitting next to him as he continued. “I discussed this with Evie in our first real conversion about religion. I told her that I need a God who is just but who can also somehow pardon my guilt. Who can take care of all the evil I’ve done. But, since mercy and justice are basically impossible to reconcile, then I’ve never been able to see how God could display both attributes. Would you say that Essea is both just and merciful?”

“Without a doubt.”

“But how can that be? If he forgives us of our wrong doing, then that means he’s not punishing us as we deserve. And that is not justice.”

Lydial nodded. “Geralt, I truly understand your confusion. Our sacred scriptures say that Essea promises us that, if we repent, then he will adopt us as his children, forgive us of our rebellion against him and accept us into heaven. Of course, the scriptures also say that he is a holy, just God. What they don’t truly explain, however, is how he’s going to reconcile those two concepts.”

Geralt sighed, clearly frustrated. “That’s great. Just great. And here I was thinking that Essea might actually be the God I was looking for.”

Lydial held up her hand. “Wait a second, Geralt. I’m not finished. While it’s true that the writings don’t fully explain how he – a just God – can forgive us, there is one passage that, I believe, clearly hints at it.”

“Really?” He sounded more skeptical than hopeful. 

“Yes. Have you not come across the story of King Altachadh in your readings, yet?”

“Hell, Lydial, I don’t remember. All these old, Aen Seidhe names…I can’t keep them all straight.”

“Well, do you want to hear about him?” she asked. 

Geralt nodded and handed her the tome, and less than a minute later, she said, “Here we are. The story of King Altachadh. It’s long so get comfortable.

“In the 471st year of Gaineamh’s reign as chief priest of the Aen Seidhe nation, King Altachadh became ruler of the clan of Gealuain in the city of Aranbhaile -”

“Oh, come on. Seriously?” interrupted Geralt. “See what I mean? How can anyone remember all those names?”

Evie chuckled. “Shush. Don’t interrupt,” she said with a smile. Geralt just shook his head.

Lydial smiled and continued.

“Altachadh was the strongest and most powerful elf of the Gealuain clan, and he came to power in the time when the clans in the northern lands turned away from Essea. The clans of the north spurned Essea’s laws and turned to other gods – gods of their own making. But Altachadh pursued Essea with all his heart. He tore down the alters and poles of the false gods brought into his city. He decreed that Essea and Essea alone would be worshiped in Aranbhaile. He was a righteous king, and he desired a righteous city. Therefore, he followed the Code of Essea and ruled his subjects with the same.

“Though Altachadh was a beloved king for he was wise, just, and kind, all was not well in Aranbhaile for the king had no heir. And though he prayed to Essea, Nisha, the wife of King Altachadh, remained without child. For five years, Altachadh had no heir until Essea brought an infant – an orphan – to the royal palace. 

“Altachadh and Nisha adopted the boy and named him Eirich. Despite receiving love and discipline, Eirich was a rebellious child, and he grew to be a rebellious young man who challenged his father. He squandered his wealth in wild living and brought dishonor to his family. He spurned his father’s God and did unholy acts in the eyes of Essea. One night, in his drunkenness, he and his friends visited an alter to Essea in the city of Aranbhaile. They desecrated the alter and burned it down. While Eirich’s friends escaped, he was captured and brought before his father, the king.

“Essean Code specified that desecration against an Essean altar was an offense against Essea himself. Ancient tradition called for a punishment of thirty-nine lashes against such a crime, and only the most robust could live from receiving such punishment.

“As was the custom, Eirich was stripped of his shirt, and his hands and feet were bound in shackles. As he was being chained to the ‘purification’ wall, with his back exposed, he cursed his father, he cursed Essea, and he even cursed everyone else present in the royal court. The officers and attendants in the court looked on in anticipation of Altachadh’s royal decision regarding his rebellious and physically weak son. All knew that thirty-nine lashes would kill the young man, and it was also known that, despite Eirich’s rebellion, Altachadh still desperately loved his son. But King Altachadh was a just ruler. So, just what would he do? The court castigator stood with his whip in hand, awaiting the king’s ruling. King Altachadh’s voice rang out through the royal court.

“‘My son, there is no question of your guilt. And since a crime has been committed – a sacred law broken – then punishment for that crime must be paid. The punishment of thirty-nine lashes. That is justice. Eirich, I love you, and as your father, I would like to pardon your crimes. But a pardon would be a travesty of justice, and I will not be an unjust king.’

“King Altachadh then turned to the court castigator.

“‘On my word, proceed with the punishment.’

“King Altachadh then stood, removed his crown, his royal robes and shirt. He descended from his throne and stood in front of his rebellious son. His large, muscled frame completely covered the frail teenager standing before him.

“King Altachadh said to the castigator, ‘You may proceed.’

“The whip cracked, and the king took the punishment for his adopted son, the son he loved. His back was flayed, and his blood dripped from his body. After thirty lashes, Altachadh yelled out and fell to his knees. His court attendants ran to his side, but he spoke to them saying, ‘No. It is not yet finished.’ And he slowly stood again.

“After the punishment was fulfilled, Altachadh fell again to the floor, his hands and knees in pools of his own blood. He slowly stood and unshackled his son from the wall, the bloody imprint of his hands left on the metal clasps. 

“Altachadh hugged his son and kissed his cheeks. With tears in his eyes, he spoke to Eirich, ‘My son, the penalty for your crimes has been paid in full. You are free of these chains, and now, I invite you to the banquet hall. Let us all praise Essea that you live and celebrate with a feast of fine food and joyful music. 

“‘A royal robe for my son!’ ordered the king to his attendants. ‘He will sit with me at my table.’

“And so it was that King Altachadh took on Eirich’s pain and bore his suffering. The father was broken for his child’s transgressions, crushed for his iniquities; the punishment that brought the rebel peace was on the monarch, and by the king’s wounds his son was saved.”

At that point, Lydial slowly closed the tome and looked at Geralt. The witcher was simply looking down at the deck in front of him, silent and lost in thought.

“When justice and mercy were reconciled,” she eventually stated in a soft voice.

Geralt looked up, an unreadable expression on his face. He stared back at Lydial, but he stayed quiet for several, long moments more. Finally, he gave a slight nod of his head.

“What happened with Eirich?” the witcher asked Lydial. “Did he go to the feast with his father, change his ways?”

Lydial shook her head. “We don’t know. The tome doesn’t say…but I hope he did. I’d like to believe that seeing such an amazing display of love and sacrifice from his father would cause a son to change, to want to change. But, Geralt, there are some with a heart so calloused that no amount of love will soften it. In fact, for some mysterious reason, an act of grace can actually harden a calloused heart even more. I’ve seen it. It’s as if that person actually resents the kindness that they are being shown. Perhaps, because…of pride - they think they don’t need such kindness or…maybe, because they don’t think that they deserve it. I don’t know. I can’t explain it. But as the scriptures say elsewhere, ‘The same sun that melts the ice hardens the clay.’”

Geralt nodded his head again. “And you think this story – of Altachadh and his son – is a picture of what God is going to do for us?”

Lydial smiled. “Again, I don’t know. But I do know that this story was recorded for us – and preserved for us – for a reason.”

“So…Essea, himself, is going to pay off the penalty of our wrong doing…of our rebellion against him? He’s going to - what - pour out his own just punishment on himself? How is that even possible?”

Lydial laughed, shaking her head. “You keep asking me questions I don’t have the answer to. But, Geralt, I can answer this - I trust that Essea is just, and I trust that he is loving. And the reason I believe that is because he has shown himself to be those things over and over again – both to me personally and to the Aen Seidhe nation as a whole. So, I don’t know how he’s going to do it, but, yes, I believe he somehow will – just like King Altachadh did.”

“But…why? What kind of God would do that?”

Lydial looked at the witcher, and a warm smile came to her face. “A God that loves you – that kind.”

oOo

_Cintra_

“So, you’re really going to take a ship instead of just letting me teleport you?” asked Fringilla.

“That is correct,” answered Malek. “I told you. I’m not going to leave my men – or our horses – behind. I have a strong feeling that I’m still going to need both for where I’m going.”

The southerners were standing on the docks of the seaside-city of Cintra. Having been on the opposite side of Tretogor from where Philippa’s fire-breathing gargolems had initially attacked, they had miraculously escaped the Redanian capital city with their lives. Afterward, they’d fled south across the Pontar. It was during their time in Temeria that Malek’s spy network finally – after almost a month of silence – came through again. He’d been informed that Evie was on a ship heading south. Though the spy was unsure of the historian’s eventual final destination, the undercover agent was adamant that the ship was heading down past the Cape of Matija – the Continent’s most southern point - and into the Southern Sea. So, at that point, Malek had directed his men westward to the first port city that they could reach. 

He’d booked passage for himself and his men for the capital city of Nilfgaard. He decided that, even if he didn’t know exactly where Evie was headed at the moment, he was going to journey in her general direction. If his spy reached out to him again in the future with new intelligence, then he and his men would at least already be in the southern part of the Continent. And if nothing else, he figured that he should travel to his home in the Nilfgaardian capital. He wanted to head to his rooms in the royal palace and collect a few personal effects that held sentimental value while he still had the chance. Malek doubted that Emhyr would be on the throne for long, and he knew that it’d be best if he was already gone if and when any usurpers arrived at the palace to execute their coup.

Fringilla and Malek were alone of the dock, the rest of his men having already boarded the ship. She stepped close and looked up at the large man.

“In that case…do you have room for one more in your cabin?” she asked. 

Malek narrowed his eyes at the sorceress for just a moment, but he then nodded. 

“You bet. You’re tiny. If nothing else, I’ll put you in my pocket.” 

oOo

Evie woke in the middle of the night in an empty bed. She called out to Geralt in the dark, but there was no answer. She quickly got dressed, left their small room, and headed up to the main deck of the ship. It was only a moment after she stepped out into the bright moonlight above that she located her husband. He was sitting on the top step of the stairs that led up to the foredeck of the ship, the Essean tome in his lap and his pipe in his mouth. She walked over to the bottom of the short flight of steps.

“Hi,” she said. “Couldn’t sleep? Nightmares again?”

“No. No nightmares tonight. Just…wanted to come up here and sit for a while.” He then used his hand to wipe off the area next to him. “Join me?”

She walked up the steps and sat down beside him. She breathed in deeply, enjoying the scent of his burning tobacco, and then leaned against his shoulder.

“So, what have you been doing up here – writing a poem for me?”  
  
Geralt could hear the teasing tone of her voice.

“Even if I was, I wouldn’t let you hear it,” he joked back. 

“I guess I deserve that. I’m a pretty lousy wife, huh?”

“Nah…you’re the best one I’ve ever had.”

“That so? You’re not a bad husband yourself. I’d rank you at least in my top two.”

They both laughed at that. 

“So, if no poem, then what?”

“Just wanted to come up here, sit under the stars, and re-read the story of King Altachadh. There were several words that I still didn’t recognize, but since Lydial read it to me this afternoon, I was able to figure things out from the context.”

“Any new thoughts?”

“Just that it’s an incredible story. And incredible to think about God in that way. I keep thinking about what Lydial said. ‘When mercy and justice were reconciled.’ I’m still trying to get my mind wrapped around it completely, but…the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.”

“Yeah…it does. So, now that you know what you know, what’s next?”

Geralt was quiet for moment. “Well, a lot of things. I want to keep reading this book so that I can understand him better. I still want to help you find and destroy the Sword – if that’s his will. And, after today, I definitely would like to find any more Essean tomes that might be out there.” Then he paused for a moment. “But, right now? I just want to lay back with my wife and look up at the stars.”

Evie smiled. “That sounds like a great idea.”

So, they laid down next to each other on the top deck of the ship. Geralt put his left hand under his head and stretched out his right arm so that Evie could use it as a pillow. He wasn’t sure how long it took, but eventually he could hear his wife’s breathing change as she drifted off to sleep, snuggled up close to him. But the witcher stayed awake – contemplating all the thoughts swirling through his mind, listening to the sails gently flapping in the wind, and gazing up at the endless universe above.

Just fifteen feet behind the two lovers, completely unseen and undetected, stood a bald man resting casually against the ship’s railing. He was a man shrouded in shadows. His black eyes stared at the witcher for the longest time. Eventually, his gaze slowly shifted to the woman sleeping at the witcher’s side. After a moment, a sinister, little grin crept upon his face, and as he turned his eyes back toward the witcher, it bloomed into a wide smile.

oOo

_Azabar, Zerrikania; September, 1273_

A month had passed since The Master’s Hand had left the port of Cidaris. During all of those weeks, Evie had never been able to see land on any horizon. As majestic and awe-inspiring as the ocean could be, she was getting a bit stir crazy on the ship, and she longed to disembark. Thus, it was logical that she felt a sense of relief when the captain announced that they would enter the capital city’s harbor later in the day. However, now that she was actually viewing Azabar with her own eyes, she was filled with wonder and excitement, as well. 

The water in the bay was the clearest blue that she’d ever seen. There were pristine, white sandy beaches lining both sides of the harbor, and about fifty feet from the shore line were undulating sand dunes, out of which sprouted tall, leafy palm trees. On the beach to her left, behind those trees, were rows of large, expensive looking homes. It made sense that they looked costly given how popular that locale must be. She knew that if she lived in the city, she’d love to wake up each morning and look out her window at the scene before her. 

Behind those beautiful homes – on the western side of the city - was a small, mountain that, where it wasn’t covered with deep, green foliage, was spotted with hundreds of houses made of white and tan stone. At the base of that mountain – the center of the city – was located the harbor and the accompanying warehouse and business districts with countless multi-story buildings. To the east was a wide river – the Kozemel – that flowed into the Southern Sea. Further east of the river was the region’s agricultural center, with verdant, irrigated lands stretching on for more than a mile. Zerrikania was known for its spices, and she would have sworn that she could smell the spicy fragrances in the wind – even though they were still a mile from the harbor. 

When most people on the Continent thought of Zerrikania, they thought of dry, harsh desert dunes. And those certainly existed. Evie knew that as one moved further away from the Kozemel River, the more that the land turned arid and inhospitable. But here, she thought, here was paradise. 

But Evie quickly put all those thoughts away. She reminded herself why she and her loved ones were there, and it wasn’t for a honeymoon or vacation. As a historian she was aware of what was, most likely, the most important location in the city, and it wasn’t the beaches or mountains or river-side gardens. The first place that she’d need to find was Azabar’s main library. 

oOo

Philippa had been in Azabar for two weeks, spending that time making very discreet inquiries. Resting out on the balcony of her luxury suite in the finest hotel in the city, she now believed that, perhaps, those inquiries had finally paid off. On this sweltering day, the sorceress was sipping a cool, minty beverage, and enjoying both the refreshing breeze coming off the Southern Sea and the shade provided by the balcony’s awning. Through her tinted glasses, she inspected her guest, who was sitting, as still as a statue, on the opposite side of small table. In the most basic sense, her guest looked similar to most Zerrikanians, possessing the bronze skin and thick, black hair that was typical of the people who lived east of the Tir Torchair Mountains. 

However, there were also some major and vitally important differences. Peering back at Philippa were a pair of cat-like eyes, and around the neck, was a chain that held a silver medallion. Atypical of most witchers, however, there were no twin swords attached to this witcher’s back. A four-foot long staff lay across the monster-slayer’s lap. Philippa had no doubt it was no ordinary staff. Finally, the witcher broke the silence.

“Word has come to me that you’re in need of someone with my skills.” 

The witcher spoke the Common language with a bit of an accent and with a clearly feminine voice. Both made sense. The former because, while most Zerrikanians could speak Common, it wasn’t their mother-tongue. The latter made sense because this witcher was indeed a woman. 

Jezrai, of the witcher School of the Scorpion, was a striking figure. Though not classically beautiful, she possessed a quality from which others could not avert their stares. She never smiled, but when she sneered, her teeth shone bright against her bronzed skin, and her straight nose was only marred by a scar that ran across it and down onto her left cheek. Her thick, black hair was long and braided and was currently draped over her left shoulder. She had a dark-blue, crescent-shaped tattoo that framed her right eye. Philippa could see another tattoo consisting of a row of runic symbols on the witcher’s neck. 

Jezrai was as tall and broad-shouldered as most men, with long, lean muscles that bulged against the tight-fitting, light-weight armor that she wore. She could easily crush a man between her thighs. She was equally exotic, powerful, and deadly. 

“Indeed,” answered Philippa. “I need a local – someone who knows the customs, the history, and the land. Someone who-”

“There are hundreds of locals who know those things,” Jezrai interrupted. “But you ask for someone with my talents, so…let’s cut to the heart of it, shall we? Just what – or who – do I need to kill? And then, we can discuss my price.”

“Oh…I do believe that we’re going to get on smashingly well,” remarked Philippa with a smile. 

She reached into a pocket, pulled out a large sapphire, and placed it on the table between them.

“This is the first part of the payment. If my suspicions are correct, then it is highly likely that a certain white-haired witcher will be making his way to Azabar. You are to watch for him. This gemstone is buying a month of your time. Even if he never arrives, you may obviously keep it.”

“You say ‘first part of payment.’ What is the second part?”

“Two more gemstones of equal quality – after you kill him,” Philippa replied. “I’d do it myself, but, as I said, he may not even show up here, and my attention is required elsewhere.”

Jezrai’s gaze shifted between Philippa and the large gemstone on the table. 

“So, do you agree to this arrangement?”  
  
The witcheress nodded.

“Excellent,” purred the sorceress. “Shall we drink to our partnership?”  



	30. Chapter 30

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 18

_Azabar, Zerrikania_

“I’ve never, in my life, seen a city this crowded.” 

  
Even though the witcher was walking right beside her, Evie had felt the need to raise her voice just to be heard over the din of noise coming from all around – chickens squawking, dogs barking, merchants yelling, even a random person repeatedly banging two pans together for no discernable reason. She was also grasping tightly to Geralt’s arm with one hand while firmly pressing the other hand over the satchel at her hip. She was wary of pick-pockets and cut-purses, and she had already been jostled by passers-by more times than she cared to count. The five Westerners – their ship’s captain had told them that’s how the Zerrikanians would refer to them - were walking through the stone-covered streets of the warehouse district heading towards some lodging on the other side of town that the sailor had suggested. When Geralt had told him how much money they were more or less able to spend, the captain gave a short laugh and told them that they had two choices – The Golden Dragon Inn near Dreamer’s Row or sleeping on the docks. 

  
“The Golden Dragon Inn…Dreamer’s Row,” Benny had remarked with a nod and a smile. “Those actually have a rather pleasant sound to them.”

  
Upon hearing that, the captain had guffawed. 

  
“My friend, you’d be wiser choosing the docks. Enjoy your stay in Azabar,” he’d said before chuckling again and walking away.

  
As Evie walked through the city, surveying her surroundings with a historian’s eye, she quickly recognized that the Zerrikanians seemed to only have three main style of dress. She hated to make assumptions, but she figured the style of clothing was equated to their social class. The most common ensemble was worn by what she assumed to be the ordinary, working-class citizen. Almost all wore some variation of a light weight, white or cream-colored cotton shirt with short sleeves ending at the elbow. In addition, their trousers were also made of a light-colored cotton, and almost all had sandals on their feet. The women dressed the same except for a few touches of fashion. Some had colorful stitching in their blouses. A few wore shirts of either pale blue or pink instead of the standard white, and the occasional, sheer scarf could be seen on their heads or around their necks. 

A second group, which Evie believed to clearly be Azabar’s wealthy, stood out from the rest with their very colorful ensembles. They were draped in fine silk and other equally high-quality fabrics dyed in deep reds, bright blues, metallic golds, and dark purples. Both the men and women of this group all wore expensive jewelry, made of gold, silver, and gemstones. The women styled their hair in complicated braids or piled high on their heads, and the men – if they had facial hair – all kept their mustaches and goatees trimmed and waxed. 

But it was the third group that had Evie the most on edge. In addition to its mythological golden dragons, warm climate, and exotic spices, Zerrikania was also known for its fierce warrior-swordsmen. She had only seen a few of them so far, but there was no mistaking them, with sabers at their sides and tribal-looking tattoos covering their muscular shoulders and arms. Even their faces sported multiple tattoos, which made them look quite savage. 

They also dressed quite differently than everyone else. They did wear armor, but Evie thought initially that, frankly, it wasn’t very practical – especially from what she’d seen of the female warriors’ armor. Half of their body wasn’t even protected. They had knee-high, leather boots and leather body armor covering both the front and back of their torso, but their arms were completely exposed and their muscular thighs were only covered by a short skirt. It just didn’t seem to offer much protection. The male warriors weren’t protected any better as they wore the same style of gear except that they sported cotton trousers instead of the skirt. 

However, when Evie thought more on it, she could actually see the benefit of wearing such a small amount of armor despite the lack of protection it offered. Given how hot it was in the region, she assumed it would be much more comfortable than, say, what Geralt was currently wearing. In fact, she didn’t know how the witcher wasn’t boiling in his specially-treated, leather armor that completely covered him from neck to toe. Another factor was that the Zerrikanians’ very light-weight armor would also aid them in terms of quickness and agility. Despite those obvious benefits, there was a part of Evie that thought that the warriors – both the men and the women – also wore the skimpy armor because they were simply interested in showing off their physiques. Though, Evie had to admit – she couldn’t really blame them. They were impressive. 

As they continued making their way through the crowd, two random female warriors were on the other side of the street, walking in their direction. Upon seeing the sword on Geralt’s hip, they smoothly slid their hands near the hilt of their own. Behind his tinted glasses, the witcher easily saw their hands move, but he could tell it was simply done out of habit – as a precaution. He knew an actual attack wasn’t imminent just from the way they walked and carried themselves. After the warriors passed, neither even bothered to turn and give the White Wolf a second glance. Normally, they would have been quite interested in a witcher from one of the Western schools, but Geralt, prior to disembarking from the ship, had chosen to disguise himself – tinted glasses, no swords on the back, scars magically concealed, and his medallion under the shirt. He knew he’d made a wise choice. He had no desire to be the object of interest by which some foolhardy warrior wished to test his or her mettle.

“Have you ever seen a Zerrikanian warrior in action?” Evie asked Geralt after the two warriors had passed.

Immediately, images flashed through Geralt’s mind – a memory from many years back with Villentretenmerth and his two, female body-guards. He had, indeed, seen one of the warriors in action – in a very intimate way. The witcher successfully kept his face stoic and simply nodded at his wife. But he didn’t look at her. He told himself it was because he needed to keep his eyes on his surroundings. 

“Are they as good as it’s said?” 

Again, Geralt kept his face neutral despite the urge to smirk. He simply nodded again. 

“Get ahold of yourself,” the witcher thought. “You shouldn’t let those memories come to mind. You’re married now, asshole. How would you feel if she was thinking about some naked guy from her past right now?”

“Better than you?” she asked, bringing him out of his thoughts.

“Pardon?”

“The Zerrikanian warriors – can they fight better than you?”

“Don’t know. Never actually crossed blades with one. Their sword skills are legendary, but they’d be hard-pressed to beat me. My Signs would be tough for them to handle.”

“Well, let’s not find out who’s better, okay?”

“Hey, you know me. I never go looking for trouble.”

“I know…but, it does seem to find you.”

The witcher nodded. “No doubt.”

While Geralt was doing his best to detect any danger around them – and to also keep images of nude Zerrikanian women out of his head - it was an impossible task given the overcrowded city streets and markets. Even if he had turned around and looked behind him, he never would have noticed the two, male Zerrikanian warriors blending in with the mass of humanity. The two warriors who had been following them since they had stepped off The Master’s Hand and onto the Azabar docks. 

oOo

“The Golden Dragon? More like the Dragon’s Bunghole,” said Barcain while gazing at the front of the dilapidated inn. “And what the hell is that smell? It’s making my head spin.”

“You, too?” asked Lydial. “I thought it was the heat getting to me,” she said, as she looked up at the scorching sun. It wasn’t even noon yet. 

“I’m not 100% sure because I’ve never actually smelled it myself,” said Evie, “but, based on my research, I think it’s papaver fumes.”

“What’s papaver?” asked Lydial.

“A very powerful drug, derived from the papaver plant,” answered Benny. “It makes fisstech seem like nothing more than a sugar pill. It can be used in palliative care, to reduce pain. But it also causes intense euphoria and, in large doses, extreme disorientation and drowsiness.”

“Hence the name Dreamer’s Row,” said Evie. “It must be nearby.”

“If it’s this obvious, why don’t the authorities do something about it?” asked Lydial.

“Because, here, it’s not illegal to grow, sell, or use,” answered Evie. “And it’s not just for the low-class. Even the upper-crust partake in it. It’s a huge business. In fact, if what I read was accurate, the local government is actually the city’s biggest producer of it. It brings an incredible amount of money into their coffers.” 

“Speaking of money, we have got to do something about our money situation,” said Barcain, still sniffing the air. “And maybe find other lodging – on the other side of town.

“Geralt,” said Evie, “what do you think? Should we try to find someplace else?”

“You’re asking the wrong guy,” he answered. “It looks fine to me, but…on the Path, a rat-filled barn is considered a luxury so…” The witcher shrugged at his wife.

“Alright,” Evie said with a nod. “We’ll stay here for tonight. Maybe tomorrow we can find something better. Hopefully, we’ll be leaving town for Gearrlon as soon as possible anyway.” 

oOo

After checking into The Golden Dragon, Evie asked the innkeeper for the location of Azabar’s best library. The woman suggested that they head to the Azabar Academy, located at the base of the small mountain, Mount Omaan, on the western side of town. 

It was early afternoon before they found, first, the Academy and then the library itself. When they finally passed through the front doors, Evie felt a calmness wash over her – a calmness that she hadn’t felt since stepping off of the ship. She was indeed fascinated by Azabar and its unique culture and history, but its loud, crowded, chaotic and dangerous streets frayed her nerves. While it was true that her profession did take her into the field on occasions, most of her time was spent in the quiet and peaceful indoors reading and doing research. The library had the same odor that libraries all over the Continent possessed – a combination of parchment, old ink, and dust that just soothed the historian’s nerves. She was in her comfort zone.

Evie, feeling in control, led the group to the main desk and spoke with the librarian.  
She introduced herself and then asked if the librarian spoke the Common language. While Evie was quite proficient in the Quaruntithi language – the tongue from which all eastern languages, including Zerrikanian, were derived – she wasn’t totally fluent in it and preferred to speak in Common if she could. After discovering that the librarian did, indeed, speak Common, she informed him of what she was searching. 

“Gearrlon? My, my, that is quite the popular subject recently,” said the gray-haired, bespectacled librarian.

“What do you mean by that?” asked Geralt, suspicion in his voice. 

“Well, while the tales of Gearrlon are well known in Azabar, they are really nothing more than popular ghost stories. Nothing more than fantasy. Those who actually do serious research into the lost city are very few. However, just a fortnight ago, another came here asking for texts on Gearrlon. A man – a Westerner, like yourselves, in fact.”

Now, the entire group was suspicious. 

“Do you remember his name by chance?” asked Evie.

“Oh, I’m sorry, but no. I could definitely pick him out of a crowd if I saw him again, but the name eludes me. My humblest apologies. But, if it would please you, I can lead you to the shelves you seek. In fact, I must escort you there as access to them is restricted.”

oOo

“Are you sure they are the Westerners that the Eilhart witch wants dead?” asked Jezrai as she was sharpening her blades. She was sitting on the floor of her small home, cross-legged with her weapon in her lap. 

“Positive, my love,” answered Nebo – short for Nebomazzalar. “Tiki overheard them discussing Gearrlon. It must be them, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, most likely,” she said. “Speaking of Tiki – where is he? Why did he not return with you?”

“He is following them to the Azabar Academy. I told him that I would meet him there after informing you of our discovery.” 

Then, a small smile came to Nebo’s face at the thought that he was here with Jezrai and not the other way around. Both he and Tiki – short for Tikimazzalar - were Jezrai’s lovers, and both became slightly jealous when one was in her presence alone. It was only the two brothers’ strong love for each other that allowed them to share the Scorpion witcheress. They would have been too tempted to kill any other man that Jezrai chose to bed. Though, the truth was that she’d had occasional sexual encounters in the past with both men and women, and the two brothers had always wisely chosen to keep their swords sheathed. They knew better than to cross their lover by killing one her temporary play-things. As skilled as they were with their swords, they knew they stood little chance to survive if she unleashed all of her fury against them.

“And just how do you know where they were going?” 

“After they left the inn, I spoke with the innkeeper. I was persuasive. She informed me that they asked her about the best library in town.”

“I’m pleased, Nebo,” said Jezrai, finally looking up from sharpening her blades. She then stood and kissed him deeply. “Now, go to Tiki. Come back when they return to The Golden Dragon.” She kissed him again. “Tonight, we will earn the other half of my fee.”

oOo

“Oh, my…oh, my,” said the clearly upset librarian. “This is very disturbing.” 

After coming to the shelves in question, they’d found that all the texts on Gearrlon were missing.

“And you’re sure they weren’t checked out?” asked Evie.

“Oh, goodness, no. The texts in this area of the library cannot leave the building,” he answered. “Oh dear, what will the chancellor say?” the librarian asked himself under his breath. Then, he started pacing back and forth mumbling to himself.

“Hey,” interjected Geralt, getting the librarian’s attention. “I’m sorry for your distress and all, but could this man – this Westerner – have stolen the texts. I mean, you said that he’s the last to have asked about them, right?”

“Well, yes – I mean, no,” said the librarian. “I mean, yes, he was the last to have read them, but he couldn’t have stolen them. Notice the guards?” he asked, pointing to two armed men standing near the door of the restricted area. “All must have their bags and persons checked before leaving this room.”

“Well,” said the witcher, “they walked out of here somehow.”

He then proceeded to closely inspect the shelves and floor where they were standing. It was useless, though. The stone floors of the library were too clean to reveal any clue to follow, and when he smelled the air, he couldn’t detect any unusual odor. 

As Geralt was busy with his sleuthing, Evie asked the very flustered librarian a few more questions. 

“Are there any more libraries in Azabar – personal or public - that might have texts on Gearrlon?”

“No, no…not that I’m aware of. This is the only public library with those specific texts. Now, there are many wealthy citizens in Azabar, with extensive private collections. While I am familiar with many of them, I am not privy to the contents of all, but I have not even heard rumors of a private collection of Gearrlon texts. They are impossible to come by.”

“Forgive my ignorance, but why is that exactly?” asked Evie.

“But…I thought you knew. The city-state of Gearrlon cannot be found. It has been lost for nearly a thousand years.”

“Lost? What the hell does that mean? How do you lose a city?” asked Barcain.

“I cannot say. At some point, it was simply wiped from the map. Many have tried to find it over the centuries, of course, but to my knowledge, none have found it. In fact, most who venture out, never return. Hence, the genesis of the ghost stories of Gearrlon.”

“Fantastic,” said Benny under his breath.

“So, no one knows where it is…or was? Your now-stolen texts didn’t give its location?” Evie asked.

“To be honest, I’ve never actually read them. It’s my understanding that they mostly told of Gearrlon’s history – or myths, depending upon one’s perspective. While the texts did provide a general idea of where the city was located, they gave no specifics. As I said, many have tried to find it. They don’t return.”

“No one’s come back?” asked Evie.

“Well, there is one who claims to have found the city, but…I’m even hesitant to mention him. He is…well, he is not stable. All consider his tales the imaginings of a fractured mind.”

Evie sighed deeply in frustration. It seemed they were hitting one obstacle after another. 

“And let me guess – you don’t know this man’s name or where to find him, do you?”

“Oh, no…on the contrary. He is a former professor of antiquities at Azabar Academy. And I am fairly certain I know exactly where you can find him…almost every night.”

oOo

The sun had set, but the night air still hadn’t cooled, and heat radiated upward off the city’s stone streets. To make matters worse, as the five of them approached the street corner leading into Dreamer’s Row, the stench of papaver grew thicker. The drug’s fumes seemed to be acting as a blanket over the entire street. It was an oppressive combination, thought Evie, as she looked into the darkened alley. She’d been in some rough neighborhoods before in her life, but this place made The Bits in Novigrad look like a stroll through the quaint streets of Beauclair.

The helpful librarian had told them that, several years past, Azabar Academy’s former professor of antiquities, Kandhal Uziraiha, had led a large, heavily-funded expedition of colleagues, students, and other adventure-seekers into the desert in a search for Gearrlon. Several weeks later, the professor stumbled out of the desert and back into Azabar all alone. He was immediately admitted to the hospital to take care of his physical ailments. However, his mental and emotional wounds weren’t so easily healed. The tales he told of Gearrlon were non-sensical and utterly unbelievable. Everyone began to suspect that the professor had simply lost his mind out in the desert. Soon, Uziraiha discovered that only the powerful effects of papaver could calm his disturbed and deranged psyche. Unfortunately, said the librarian, the drug eventually dug its claws into the professor, and in time, he lost all interest in his profession, family, and friends. It was rumored that, like almost all who dallied with the drug, Uziraiha had been caught in the spider’s web of the papaver dens and could be found down on Dreamer’s Row every night. The sad tale of Professor Uziraiha had served as a warning. No one had ever attempted to locate Gearrlon again.

“What’s the plan?” asked Benny. “Looks like there’s close to a dozen buildings on the street. Probably all of them are papaver dens.”

Dreamer’s Row was lined with dark and depressing, two-story structures on both sides of the street. And as a fitting metaphor, the street seemed to terminate in a dead-end. 

“I’d like to get out of this dung heap as quickly as possible. My head’s already getting foggy,” said Barcain. “So, I say we split up. That’ll allow us to find this guy faster. Geralt can handle himself so that leaves me with Nain and Angel with Benny. I figure-”

“You’re out of your damn mind,” interrupted Geralt. “There’s not a chance in hell Evie’s going into one of those dens with just Benny.” He then turned to Benny. “No offense.”

“Absolutely none taken. And, frankly, I agree,” said the mage. “I’m not entering any of them with just Evie…no offense to Evie.”

“I honestly don’t want to go into any of them, no matter who’s with me,” said Lydial. “I’m starting to feel woozy just being out here in the streets. I can’t imagine what I’d feel like if I went inside one of those places.”

“Look, I should be the only one who enters any of the dens,” said Geralt. “With my mutated metabolism, this stuff won’t affect me near as much or near as fast as it will you. And I can be in and out real fast. I’ll go in, Axii everyone in the joint, and find out quickly if he’s in there or not. And if not, we’ll move on to the next one.”

“And what are we supposed to do?” asked Barcain.

“Stay outside in the fresh air – relatively fresh air - and watch each other’s backs,” answered the witcher. “There’s safety in numbers.”

Barcain shrugged. “Alright.”

Geralt assumed Evie would protest him going in alone, but like everyone else, she too saw that his plan was the wisest choice. She had no desire to step inside one of the papaver dens as, like the rest, her brain was already feeling the effects of the fumes.

oOo

_Korath Desert_

“Congratulations, Professor,” said Philippa.

She could see nothing but empty desert dunes around her, but her magic detected evidence that her eyes could not.

“You seem to have finally found it. There’s Power here, somewhere nearby. I can sense it.”

“Well…um…yes. It was, uh, simple really. Just a matter of…um…reading the texts and…uh, you know…following the clues,” said Gigglethorpe as he clutched one of the Azabar Academy books in his hands. 

“Indeed. You’re quite the detective. I only had to teleport us across this desert seven times until you guessed the correct location,” she replied sarcastically.

“Well…you know…archeology is not always-”

“Shut up, Gigglethorpe,” instructed the sorceress. “I’m tired…and tired of your prattling.”

“Uh…yes…okay.” After he paused, he asked, “What will we do now?”

“Now, we’ll rest…until I recover magically. Then, I’ll head back to Azabar and teleport the others here.”

“Yes, that, uh, does seem like-”

“Gigglethorpe, don’t make me silence you.”

The professor gulped, nodded, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

oOo

The witcher opened the door and, as expected, fumes poured out into the night air. He dilated his pupils as wide as he could and then crossed the threshold, not bothering to shut the door behind him. This was the seventh papaver den he’d entered in the last hour, the first six obviously not entertaining Professor Uziraiha. Though he’d had no success yet, he did, at least, learn one fact about the former teacher in the second establishment he’d visited. Down on Dreamer’s Row, the man was simply known as Uzi.

Geralt had been correct about his witcher metabolism fighting off the effects of the drug’s vapor. Had the other four spent the last hour in the papaver dens as he had, they’d be passed out in the street right now. Even with his mutated body’s best efforts to resist the powerful drug, he’d still felt the need to drink down a White Honey potion prior to entering this seventh den. Luckily, it had worked as he’d hoped and cleared both his system – and most importantly his brain – of the euphoric and delirious effects. 

He walked up to the counter and spoke with the attendant, who like all the other den workers he’d met that night was wearing a protective mask over his nose and mouth.

“Looking for Uzi,” said Geralt. “He here?”

“And who you be?” asked the attendant in a thickly accented effort at speaking in the Common tongue.

“His long-lost brother.”

“You no look like brother.”

“Yeah, I know. We’ve got different dads. Now, is he here or not?”

“Customer privacy - very important here.”

The witcher already knew where this was heading, having gone through it three times already with other attendants trying to swindle money from him. He didn’t even bother with continuing the conversion. He just signed an Axii at the attendant.

“Is Uzi here?”

“Yes, Uzi here.”

“Finally,” thought the witcher. The answer he’d been looking for all night.

“Excellent. Now, take me to Uzi.”

“Yes, yes. I take you to Uzi.”

“Appreciate it.”

As he followed the attendant down the dark, smoke-filled hallway, he suddenly heard faint singing coming from a room up ahead on his right. It was a song that he’d heard before, and it sent a chill through his spine. The attendant walked past the open doorway, leading Geralt further into the den, but the witcher stopped at the threshold and peered into the dark room. 

“His smile fair as spring, as towards him he draws you. His tongue sharp and silvery, as he implores you…” sang a clearly doped-up papaver user. 

He was slurring the words, but the song was unmistakable to the witcher. Those lyrics and that tune were as seared into his brain as the brand had been on his face. At the memory, the witcher’s hand automatically came up and touched his left temple – just to confirm that the mark was no longer there. Geralt peered deeper into the room, trying to see which denizen was singing the words. But there were dozens of bodies lying about on the floor, on mattresses, on couches, and the witcher couldn’t pinpoint the origin of the voice. It seemed to be echoing off the walls of the room. That’s when he heard another voice to his left. 

“Coming?” asked the attendant, standing in the hallway, facing the witcher.

Geralt nodded. “Yeah,” he said as the voice inside of the room kept singing.

“…he’ll snare you in bonds, eyes glowin’ a fire, to gore and torment you, till the stars expire…”

As the witcher turned to follow the attendant, something caught his attention in his peripheral vision. He jerked his head to the left and instinctively reached for his sword. He could have sworn that he’d just seen a very familiar – and unwelcome - figure with a sinister grin and a shaved pate staring out of the shadows at him. But when he looked, there was nothing and no one there. Just an empty, shadowy corner. He lowered his hand back to his side and shook his head a couple of times, thinking that the papaver fumes must already be affecting his mind again, and then he turned to follow the attendant. 

oOo

Jezrai, Nebo, and Tiki had been discreetly observing the five Westerners since they’d left The Golden Dragon over an hour before, just after dusk. Despite the fact that he didn’t wear his twin swords on his back, Jezrai easily picked out the witcher in the group. Even if she hadn’t known he had white hair, he would have been easy to spot compared to the other four simply from the way he walked – like a predator. Good, she thought. It had been a while since she’d had a challenge. And it would make collecting the other two gemstones from the Eilhart witch all the more satisfying.

oOo

As the night dragged on, Evie’s anxiety increased along with the darkness. By that point in the evening, there was very little illumination along Dreamers’ Row. Not only because there was very little moon light penetrating down into the street but also because all of the dens boarded up their windows to keep the sunlight out during the day, which also meant that any candlelight from within the buildings couldn’t shine out into the street at night. However, having her three companions next to her alleviated some of her fear and strengthened her courage. The four of them stood in a tight semi-circle, with their backs to the papaver den, facing out into the shadowy street. 

Every time someone entered the Row and began walking in their direction, all four of them tensed and put their hands on their respective weapons. Then, they’d all exhale deeply upon seeing the person enter one of the papaver dens. So far, people had only been entering the dens. None had been seen leaving. After a while, Evie just decided to keep her crossbow in hand instead of returning it to its carrier on her back. At first, she felt a little silly – letting the paranoia get the best of her – but when she saw that Barcain still had his sword unsheathed and that Lydial was grasping two bombs on her bandolier, she realized that it wasn’t just her. Maybe it wasn’t paranoia. They were just expecting the worst. Given what they’d all gone through in the last three months, that was actually probably just good, common sense.

oOo

“You Professor Uziraiha?” asked the White Wolf. 

Uzi removed the papaver pipe from his mouth and stared at the witcher with semi-glassy eyes. He was lying on a chaise lounge in a room with a few other papaver aficionados. 

“I knew you’d come for me eventually,” he said, in slightly slurred Common.

“The hell you talking about? You know me?” asked Geralt.

Uzi slowly shook his head. “But you want to know about Gearrlon, don’t you?”

The witcher nodded. “I do.”

Uzi continued to shake his head. “I’m not going back. Kill me now if you want to, but I’ll never go back.”

“Not going to kill you. And I’m not asking you to go anywhere. Just want you tell us how to get there.”

A small, sad smile came to Uzi’s face. “You’ll die. They all died. And you’ll die, too.”

oOo

The witcheress was hidden in the darkness of Dreamer’s Row, standing in a narrow alley between two papaver dens. Though the sun had set well over an hour before, she had waited until thick darkness had overtaken the city. 

She sensed her two soldiers just behind, and she spoke in a low voice.

“Remember - you may kill any of the four outside,” said Jezrai to Nebo and Tiki. “But the white-haired witcher is mine. Understood?”

“Yes, my love,” they both answered in whispers.

She gave a short nod of the head and stepped out into the street with Nebo and Tiki fanning out on each side of her, and then they began walking slowly towards the Westerners a half a block down.

oOo

“He’s been gone longer than usual,” said Evie.

“Maybe that’s good news,” replied Benny. “It might mean that the professor is in there.”

“Yeah, I hope so. I-” 

She suddenly stopped midsentence as she saw three people approaching. She wasn’t sure why, but something about that didn’t sit right with her. Then, it dawned on her. Every other person that they’d seen come into the Row that night had been by themselves. But here was a group of three. That was an oddity. 

The papaver den they were in front of was at the end of the Row. Geralt had checked all the dens on the right side of the street, and they were in the process of going back up the other side. She noticed that the three individuals still had not stopped to enter any of the other dens. It appeared that one of the dens at the end of the street was their final destination. 

“Be alert,” said Barcain. “Three approaching.”

Evie watched as the three strangers kept coming closer and closer. When they were ten feet away, Evie could see that two of them carried blades on their hips. Then, suddenly, Evie felt the medallion on her neck twitch. 

“Danger!!!” she screamed at the top of her lungs and immediately brought her crossbow up, aiming at the person nearest to her. Before she’d even pressed the trigger, the three strangers were already moving, weapons in their hands. 

oOo

Geralt wanted to get the professor out of the den and into some fresh air, but Uzi politely declined the witcher’s offer to speak elsewhere. The White Wolf was just about to use his Axii Sign on the Zerrikanian, when he heard a scream coming from out in the street, immediately followed by the sound of a bomb detonating. 

He rushed out of the room and back down the hall towards the front door, unsheathing his steel sword as he ran. When he got to the closed front door, he turned the knob and pulled, expecting it to open as easily as it had when he’d first entered the establishment. But it wouldn’t budge. He looked closely at the door but saw no locks. What the hell was going on, he thought. 

He pulled against the door again, this time with all his might, but it still didn’t open. Suddenly, he heard more shouting and explosions coming from the street.

He immediately took one step back from the entrance and then signed the most explosive Aard that he could, blowing the door into pieces. The shards and broken planks of wood flew out into the street, followed a moment later by the witcher himself.

oOo

Evie’s witcher medallion – sensing the magic in Jezrai’s - had saved them. Without its warning, the four Westerners would have been cut down by the witcheress and the two Zerrikanian warriors in a matter of seconds. However, it only saved them temporarily. They were now in a literal fight for their lives. 

Immediately after Evie yelled out, Benny cast his bright-light spell at the attackers, momentarily blinding them. As they shielded their eyes, Evie fired her crossbow and Lydial tossed two bombs in quick succession at the Zerrikanians. By luck, one of the bombs was a Dancing Star, and when it exploded, it singed all three of the attackers, and one of them started screaming as his upper body caught on fire, the flames lighting up Dreamer’s Row. As he was thrashing about on the street, trying to put out the flames, Evie tried to quickly re-cock her crossbow, Barcain swung his sword, and Lydial threw two more bombs in the attackers’ direction. 

After finally getting her crossbow armed again, Evie looked up to see chaos around her. She watched her brother parry his attacker’s blade, but the second thrust came quicker than Barcain could handle, and he was slashed across the chest. She saw the Zerrikanian moving in closer to finish him off, and she knew she didn’t have time to aim properly. She brought the crossbow up to her hip and pressed the trigger. She heard a cry of pain as her bolt pierced the attacker’s torso, sinking into his chest just below the right armpit. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a figure approaching and turned to meet it face-on. Her eyes widened in shock as she saw a witcher’s Quen shield shimmering around her attacker’s body and flames reflecting off of cat-like witcher eyes. Evie knew she was going to die. 

The witcheress lunged towards Evie and thrust her weapon forward. But, suddenly, out of nowhere, Benny was there, standing in front of Evie. The witcheress’ blade sunk deep into Benny’s belly, and he let out a huge gasp. The portly mage’s face carried a look of both confusion and surprise. He stared into his attacker’s eyes, and as she was about to pull her weapon from his body, he reached up and grabbed onto it, squeezing the handle with all the strength that he had left.

It was then that the door of the papaver den exploded into pieces. 

The witcheress, in an instant, took stock of the situation. The attack had not gone as she’d planned. She jerked hard and pulled her weapon from Benny’s grasp. As she withdrew the blade, the sorcerer dropped to his knees. He reached up and pressed both hands against his bloody abdomen a moment before falling over onto his side in the middle of the stone street. Jezrai turned and ran over to Nebo, who had finally extinguished the flames that had been covering his upper body. She pulled him to his feet, and they sprinted from the scene just before Geralt rushed into the street, with his sword poised to kill.

Like only he could do, the witcher assessed the scene in a fraction of a second. Three men were down. Barcain was injured but getting to his feet, but Benny was lying flat on his back, both hands covering his belly. He quickly moved over to the Zerrikanian warrior, who was lying on his left side. The witcher had to make sure that he no longer posed a threat. Geralt saw that he had crossbow bolt through the right lung and another bolt sticking out of his right thigh. After kicking the man’s sword away from his reach, the witcher grabbed his knife and sliced two long strips of fabric from the warrior’s trousers. He then quickly and expertly bound the attacker’s wrists and ankles. The witcher would deal with him later. At the moment, he had to check on his friend. 

Geralt rushed over to Benny’s side and knelt next to him. Evie, Lydial, and Barcain were already crowded around him.

“It’s too dark. I can’t see anything,” said Benny in a weak voice. His breathing was shallow and rapid. “How does it look?”

The witcher gently moved Benny’s hands to the side and then opened the mage’s vest and shirt to get a clear look at the injury. It was too dark in the street for the other three to see how serious the wound was, but Geralt could tell. 

“Damn it, Benny,” he whispered. The wound was gushing blood. 

“That bad?” Benny wheezed.

“Yeah.”

“The liver?”

“Yeah.”

Benny nodded his head in understanding. 

“Geralt, what can we do to help him?” asked Evie. “I have a healing potion on me.”

The witcher didn’t answer. He just stared down into his friend’s face. 

Benny feebly reached up a bloody, trembling hand towards Geralt, and the witcher immediately grasped it with his own. 

“Ah…damn, Geralt. I… I really hoped…I’d see this…to the end.” His breathing was becoming faster and even more shallow. “Thanks…for being my friend…Geralt.”

The witcher squeezed Benny’s hand tighter and nodded. “You, too, Benny.”

“Maybe…we’ll…see each other…” 

But he never finished his thought, and Geralt felt his friend’s grip go slack as his breathing stopped. The other hand that had been resting on his belly fell down to his side, laying palm-up in the street. The witcher looked down at his friend’s hand in his own and then gently placed it to the mage’s side. He clenched his jaws tightly as he suddenly felt something in his chest go cold.

It was then that he heard Evie and Lydial crying. He turned to Evie and she instinctively wrapped her arms around him. As the White Wolf listened to his wife’s sobs, the cold rage inside of him began to deepen. 

Eventually, he said, “Let go, baby. I’ve got work to do.”

“What…what are you going to do?” she asked, fear in her voice.

“What I do best,” he growled.

“Geralt, no, please don’t,” she begged.

But the witcher simply released his wife, stood, and walked over to the trussed-up warrior. He knelt down next to him and rolled the Zerrikanian onto his back. The man’s breathing did not sound good. The witcher figured there was probably blood leaking into his right lung cavity.

The Butcher of Blaviken grabbed the crossbow bolt protruding from the warrior’s leg, and then he asked in a low voice, “Who are you and why did you try to kill us?”

Tiki looked up at the witcher with pure hatred in his eyes. He then cleared his throat and spat a bloody mass of phlegm into the witcher’s face. 

“Go to hell, albino dog,” he said before chuckling. 

The monster-slayer slowly wiped the spit from his face. He stared into Tiki’s eyes and, then, suddenly and violently twisted the crossbow bolt in his hand. Tiki let out a horrendous scream, but the witcher didn’t stop. He just kept twisting the bolt around and around, deeper and deeper, making the screams intensify. Finally, after perhaps a minute, he let up on the pressure so that the screaming eventually turned into moans.

“I can do this all night,” said the witcher in a soft voice. “Question is – can you?” 

“Screw you! Screw you, bastard! I’ll die before I say anything!”

The White Wolf twisted the crossbow bolt again, which again elicited screams of agony. After about thirty seconds of torture, the witcher finally stopped. The warrior was breathing fast, and his face was drenched with sweat.

The witcher stared into the man’s eyes. 

“I don’t plan on you dying. In fact, I’m going to save your life,” he said in an eerily calm voice. “Not sure if you know this, but witchers are great at healing. I’ve patched up plenty of my own punctured lungs before,” the witcher lied. “Yours will be a piece of cake.” 

The warrior’s wild eyes held confusion. 

“But you are a dangerous animal, and I can’t in good conscience just release you back out into civilization. Can’t have you killing anybody else,” said the Butcher of Blaviken as he unsheathed his knife. He then placed his razor-sharp blade against the man’s right wrist. 

“So, what I’m gonna do is this. I’m gonna cut off both of your hands and both of your feet. Then, I’ll use my Igni Sign to cauterize the wounds so that you won’t bleed out.” 

At that, he turned his left hand away and blasted a stream of fire to give the warrior a demonstration.

“Impressive, huh?” said the White Wolf. “So, you’re gonna live…though, I’m not sure a Zerrikanian warrior would really call that living…never being able to grasp a blade again…having to go through life as a beggar. In fact, I think maybe I’ll even cut both your eyes out, too. That’ll make you a more sympathetic figure. You’ll get more coin tossed your way.”

The Zerrikanian’s eyes held nothing but terror. He could tell that the witcher was making no idle threats. 

“Or…you tell me what I want to know.”

“And you’ll just let me go? Yeah, right.” 

“Oh, no. But I will kill you quick,” he answered in the most frightening whisper Tiki had ever heard. Tiki would swear it was pure evil. “You’ve only got two choices – die whole or live in pieces. So, I will ask you one more time – and only one more time. Who are you and why did you try to kill my wife and friends? I’ll give you ten seconds to think about how you’re going to answer.”

The Butcher of Blaviken then reached down and grabbed the man’s right forearm with his left hand and placed his knife to Tiki’s wrist. He then gave the man a gruesome smile.

“This is your sword hand, right?” 

Then, he began to count. “One…two…three…four…”

oOo

“Quit squirming,” commanded Jezrai, applying more ointment to Nebo’s burned skin.

The two of them were in the front room of her small cottage high up on Mount Omaan. It was very secluded, set far back from the main road that wound its way back and forth through the mountain’s lush vegetation. 

“We have to go back for Tiki!” he yelled. 

“Nebo, listen to me. I’m sure that, by now, the city watch has arrived.”

“Even more reason to get him. I’ll not let him rot in a jail cell.”

“He won’t be in a cell. I saw his injuries. They’ll take him to a hospital. And while he’s there, I’ll speak with my connections. You know that a few high-placed members of the city’s council owe me favors. I assure you, we’ll save Tiki,” she said calmly. “But right now, we need to treat these burns, okay?”

“And then we’ll kill those Western dogs?”

“Slowly and painfully.”

Upon hearing that answer, Nebo seemed to calm. He looked into Jezrai’s eyes and nodded. 

Suddenly, one of the front windows of the cabin shattered, shards of glass flying all over the front room. Nebo sprung up from the table on which he’d been lying, while Jezrai immediately grabbed her weapon. The witcheress heard a low, guttural sound coming from Nebo’s throat. She glanced over at her lover and saw him staring at the floor. She shifted her eyes downward to see Tiki’s decapitated head. Before she could say or do anything, Nebo, in a craze, ran towards the now open window. 

“Bastard!” he screamed. “I’ll-”

Instantly, his head snapped back, and he fell to the floor dead, a crossbow bolt right through the eye.

Jezrai cursed to herself, but she made no other sound. She was listening for any kind of noise coming from outside of her home. As she was waiting quietly, she reached into a pouch located on her belt, took out two potions, and quickly downed them both. She crouched down and duck-walked over to her other front window. As she was getting ready to quickly poke her head above the frame to take a peak outside, she heard a voice.

“It’s just the two of us now. Come on out.”

She’d never heard the voice before, but she had no doubt as to whom it belonged. She took a quick peak through her window and saw the white-haired witcher standing alone in the clearing in front of her house with his sword in hand. She duck-walked to the other side of the room, to the smashed window, and quickly peaked through it. She didn’t trust this witcher, but he didn’t seem to be playing any tricks. He was still there, just standing and waiting for her. So, she slowly stood, moved to the door, calmly opened it, and stepped out into the late-night air. She walked towards the witcher, never breaking eye-contact with him. She stopped when she got within fifteen feet of him.

The White Wolf looked at Jezrai. He was neither surprised by her gender or by the fact that she was a witcher. Tiki had told him everything. 

“His name was Benny,” said the Butcher of Blaviken. “He was a good man. And he was my friend.”

She sneered at the witcher. “And I don’t care. You come here to fight or to talk?”

“Neither. I came here for a reckoning.”

The witcheress brought her short staff up in front of her into a horizontal position and grabbed it with both hands. Geralt heard a “clicking” sound, and, suddenly, the length of the staff doubled as two feet of steel blade shot out of both ends. She then whirled the staff in front of and around her body in an impressive display of skill before bringing it to a sudden stop, pulled tight against her right side. 

“No one’s ever bested me yet…old man.”

Jezrai swung her staff forward and immediately went on the offensive. The White Wolf back-pedaled and parried a flurry of attacks coming from all angles. He’d obviously fought against staff-wielding opponents in his life before, but none with a staff like Jezrai’s and certainly none with her speed and skill. It was taking everything he had to avoid her blades. 

As she was coming out of a pirouette to strike again, the witcher took his left hand off his sword and blasted the Zerrikanian with an Aard Sign. She flew backwards a good five yards, winding up on her back. Before she’d even landed, the witcher sprinted after her, hoping to finish her off with a downward thrust. But she flipped up-right onto her feet in a flash and easily parried away his attack. He hadn’t really even come close.

Then, she took a few steps backwards before casting a Sign of her own. Once her Quen shield was activated, she immediately went on the offensive again. And again, the White Wolf was unable to counter-attack. All he could do was defend – to parry and dodge. Normally, after he parried an enemy’s attack, he’d have time to make an offensive move of his own, but with her double-bladed weapon, he had no chance for as soon as he parried one blade, she was already swinging the other one at him. He rolled away from a final thrust and came to his feet a good five paces away from the witcheress. While both his heart-rate and breathing had increased a bit, it didn’t appear that she was being taxed at all physically. For a moment, he wondered just how young this witcheress was, and that was when he noticed some slight pain in his left arm. He reached over with his right hand and touched his sleeve. He looked at his hand to see blood.

“That’s just a taste of this Scorpion’s sting, old man. Prepare for more. That is, if the venom doesn’t kill you first.”

Not good, thought the White Wolf. If she truly did poison her blades, then he needed to finish this fight soon and get a White Honey down his throat. But Jezrai didn’t give him time to formulate any kind of plan. She cast another Quen Sign and then charged ahead for a third time, spinning her staff around her in a whirlwind. When her weapon got within ten feet of him, the witcher threw a dimeritium bomb. She saw it coming and smashed it in mid-air with one end of her staff. The cannister ruptured, and dimeritium dust exploded all around. Luckily for the witcher, just enough of it got on her person that her Quen shield blinked out. 

Jezrai expected him to immediately go on the offensive. However, despite having the advantage, instead of attacking, the witcher actually backed away. He didn’t want to walk into the area where the dust was still lingering in the air. Having temporarily lost the use her Signs, the aggressive Jezrai was content to fight defensively until she regained her casting abilities. Thus, the two witchers were simply standing and staring at one another from fifteen feet away, with a cloud of dimeritium dust floating in between them. At least now, she seemed to be breathing a little faster, too, thought the witcher.

The White Wolf tossed another bomb at the witcheress, but with her reflexes and from that distance, she was easily able to roll away from its explosive range. He wasn’t exactly sure how he was going to defeat her for her staff was a very odd weapon to fight against. But, more than that, the witcher thought that she might actually be quicker than he was. In fact, she may have been the fastest human he’d ever gone up against. She was, certainly, as fast as any bruxa that he’d ever faced. Nenneke had warned him that he’d lost a step, and, hell, that had been a decade past. If he was a step slow then, then what was he now?

He knew that he had to think of something – and that he needed to do so quickly - for the pain in his arm was becoming more intense – as if the poison was beginning to spread. In that instant, the witcher looked over Jezrai’s head at her house behind her. He stared at the house for just a moment before quickly shifting his gaze back to the witcheress, and then he began to slowly move to his left. 

As the witcher moved, Jezrai did the same. They both circled the dimeritium cloud that was in between them. Once he had finally positioned himself between her and the house, he turned and sprinted across the clearing and through her front door. 

Jezrai stayed where she was, surprised and slightly confused by the witcher’s move. She was fairly certain that he hadn’t run into her house out of cowardice. He clearly wasn’t trying to escape. So, he must have had some kind of plan, but she sneered at that thought. If he had run in there so that he could down a potion to neutralize the toxins, well, she had a remedy for that. She was planning on skewering his heart and removing his head. No potion could save him from that. And if he had retreated into the house to neutralize her weapon, knowing that a long staff would be difficult to maneuver in such confined quarters, well, she had an answer for that, as well. She pressed a button and twisted her staff so that it separated into two pieces. She now had essentially two swords in hand. Whatever his plan, she’d make it backfire on him. She knew her house much better than he did. She nodded to herself and then headed for her front door. 

At the last second, she turned and ran towards the broken window. She dived through the opening, curled her body into a ball, rolled as she hit the floor, and popped to her feet with her two swords at the ready. She quickly scanned the area, but he was nowhere to be seen. The witcheress slowly knelt down, placed the sword in her left hand on the floor, and attempted to cast a Quen Sign but to no avail. The dimeritium dust on her body was still interfering with her ability to use magic, but she just shrugged it off. It mattered not to her. She had no doubt that she could kill this old witcher with or without her Signs, and she had him on the run. 

She quickly picked the sword back up and then moved to her right, keeping her back to the front wall. She knew that there was only one place in that front room where he could be hidden. As she approached a counter that she’d set up to separate the kitchen area from the rest of the front room, she readied herself for battle. She took one more side-step to the right but relaxed slightly upon seeing that the witcher was not crouched behind the counter. That meant there was only one other place he could be. Given that she only had two rooms in her house – the main, front room housing the kitchen and living area and a smaller back room where she slept, then clearly the white-haired witcher was hiding somewhere in her bedroom. 

“You wanted me, old man. Be careful what you wish for,” she said as she slowly stalked towards the backroom.

She approached the threshold leading to her sleeping quarters and noticed that the bedroom door was halfway closed. However, she felt confident that the witcher wasn’t behind it for her medallion had not twitched. She knew that the magic in his medallion would have caused hers to vibrate if he was anywhere nearby. 

She kicked the door, and it swung violently on its hinges, smacking hard against the wooden wall. She smiled. He clearly wasn’t hidden behind the door. As she stepped into her bedroom, she suddenly felt an incredibly sharp pain coursing through her torso – so intense that it knocked the wind out of her. The nerves in both her back and chest were on fire, and the pain was so debilitating that she involuntarily dropped her weapons and fell to her knees. Gasping for breath, she reached up to her chest and pulled away a trembling hand – a hand now covered in blood. She suddenly fell to the floor, landing on her side before slowly rolling over onto her back. Spasms of pain shot through her again, and the witcheress coughed, blood spewing from her mouth and splattering her face. She didn’t understand what had happened. She looked up to where the witcher should have been if he’d attacked her from behind, but he wasn’t there. And, then, suddenly, he appeared right in front of her. He was standing in the doorway, looking down at her with cold eyes. He held his sword in his hand, and her blood was dripping off the blade. Again, she was confused. He’d materialized out of thin air. 

As if he was reading her mind and seeing her unspoken questions, he sheathed his sword, raised both of his hands in front of him, and twisted them into a shape that she’d never seen before. Two seconds later, the white-haired witcher disappeared. It couldn’t be, she thought. It shouldn’t be. The bastard had tricked her. And even if he could make himself invisible, why hadn’t her medallion warned her of his presence? It should have sensed his magical medallion. It also should have sensed him harnessing the magic to cast his invisibility spell. 

And, then, it dawned on her – the dimeritium. No one had ever used dimeritium against her before so it hadn’t even occurred to her, but the dust must have interfered with her medallion, as well. There was no other explanation. As she lay there bleeding out, she’d never felt like a bigger fool. She had been so sure that she could easily defeat the old man that, in her zeal to kill him, it had not even crossed her mind that her medallion might not be functioning properly. She knew that her recklessness had cost her, and she knew that she would soon pay in full. 

Suddenly, the witcher was right next to her. She still couldn’t see him, but she heard his voice very near to her face.

“You know who taught me this invisibility Sign?” he asked in a low voice. “My good friend…Benny…that’s who. I bet you care now, don’t you?”

She couldn’t say anything. She just coughed up more blood as pain coursed through her chest. A few seconds later, the Sign wore off, and the witcher became visible again. He stood and noticed her eyes following his movement. 

“You can see me now…good…because I want you to see this coming.”

He unsheathed his sword and raised it high with both hands on the hilt. 

As he stared down at the dying witcheress, he said two words, “For Benny.” 

Then he drove the point of his blade right through her face and into the wooden floor beneath.

oOo

After Tiki had chosen to tell Geralt everything he wanted to know, the witcher kept his word and killed the Zerrikanian quickly. He’d then searched the city until he found a donkey to steal. He told himself that he’d return it later. They’d draped both Benny and Tiki’s corpses over its back and then, in the darkness of the night, they’d taken back alleys and empty streets to the southwestern side of town. The witcher wasn’t too worried about being stopped. He figured he’d Axii every one they came across if he had to. 

Once they got to the base of Mount Omaan, Geralt removed Tiki’s head, tossed his corpse into the overgrowth, and ascended the winding road to confront Jezrai. The rest headed for the beach on the far west of town, outside the city’s limits. They found and cut wood for a pyre, and then Lydial and Evie prayed for the witcher’s return. 

An hour before sunrise, Geralt found them on the empty beach. They’d already placed Benny’s body on top of the pyre and were just waiting for him to arrive. When the witcher was fifty feet away, Evie looked up and noticed him approaching. She got to her feet and ran towards him until they stood just a foot apart. She looked into her husband’s eyes as the noise of the tide rolling in sounded around them. She didn’t like the look on his face.

“Are you okay?” she asked tenderly.

He just shook his head. “No, I’m not. I feel…empty.”

Evie didn’t say anything. She simply stepped forward, kissed Geralt on his cheek, and wrapped her arms around him. Eventually, he broke their embrace and grasped her hand in his.

“Come on,” he said before leading her towards the pyre.

Everyone said a few words about their favorite mage, and Lydial said a prayer, asking for Essea to have mercy on his soul. Then, the witcher cast an Igni. Within a minute,   
sparks floated upward into the sky as the flames engulfed the wood. 

After about ten minutes of watching the fire turn his close friend’s corpse into ash, Geralt turned and started slowly walking westward along the beach, further away from Azabar. 

Evie watched him worriedly.

“It’s been a long night. Why don’t you two head back to the inn,” she eventually said to Lydial and Barcain. “Geralt and I will be along later.”

After the two agreed and began their trek back to town, Evie went in search for her husband, following his footprints in the wet sand. She found him about a quarter mile away, kneeling in the sand and facing the sea. She stopped and knelt beside him but didn’t say a word. Eventually, he turned his left hand over and held it out slightly to his side. Evie immediately grasped it with hers. They stayed there in silence until the sun came up and changed the dark waters to clear, crystal blue. 

“I gave into the voices tonight.”

“I know.”

He didn’t say anything else, as if he was expecting for her to continue. But she didn’t. So, eventually, he spoke again.

“Seeing Benny die right there in front of me…I just felt pure rage. Then, I looked at you kneeling next to him, crying…and for the briefest moment, I felt relief that it was him and not you.” 

The witcher shook his head, disgust etched on his face. 

“What kind of piece of shit would think something like that?”

The monster-slayer continued looking straight ahead and then swallowed.   
  
“At that point, the voices were…so loud – telling me that they all deserved to suffer a bloody, excruciating death. Last time they were that loud was…after Ciri.” 

The witcher shook his head again. 

“I could’ve used Axii on that warrior in the street. Tried to get the information out of him that way, but…a part of me wanted to torture him…to make him feel the same pain I was feeling. If Essea’s voice was saying anything to me then, then…I couldn’t hear it.” He swallowed and clenched his jaws. “Or, maybe, I just chose not to.”

The witcher continued to stare out into the ocean. And Evie still didn’t say anything. She just kept holding his hand. 

“You know what’s the worst thing about it all?”

“What?”

“Not what I did – torturing that man, killing the others – but that there is still a part of me that actually enjoyed it. Giving in to the darkness felt…delicious. At least, in the moment. Now, I just feel…soiled.” 

He shook his head again. Evie could see the confusion and hurt on his face. 

“I don’t understand,” he continued, his eyes still peering out past the sea’s waves. “I believe that Essea put his light or goodness or whatever you want to call it inside of me. So, how is it that the dark can still feel so good?”

“I don’t know, Geralt. I don’t know why that is. I just know that it is.”

He just nodded his head and sighed deeply. 

“Do you still love me?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Oh, Geralt…of course, I do. I’ll always love you.”

“No matter what?”

“Yes, baby, no matter what.”

Finally, he turned his head to look at her. She saw nothing but pain in his eyes so she gave him a nod and a warm, reassuring smile.

“No matter what,” she repeated.

He just swallowed and continued to stare into her eyes for several long moments.

“You’re taking all this fairly calmly,” he eventually said.

Her smile grew a little. 

“Ranting and raving, insulting you, telling you what a disappointment you are – none of that would help anything. It wouldn’t change what happened last night. It certainly wouldn’t strengthen our relationship. And it wouldn’t change how you might act in the future.” 

“No?”

Evie shook her head. “Whatever exactly those dark voices are – pure evil, basic human nature, the consequences of your mutations, whatever - that’s…a spiritual thing, Geralt. I can’t change that. Heck, you yourself have admitted that you can’t change that. I think only God can.” 

Geralt gave a short nod. 

“So, the best thing that I can do as your wife – the most loving thing that I can do as your wife – is to just keep supporting you, praying for you, loving you…and pointing you towards him.”

The look on his face almost made Evie break into tears. 

“Thank you, Evie. For loving me. I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m grateful for it,” the witcher said in a voice barely above a whisper. “My life is so much better with you in it.” 

“Mine, too, Geralt. You make mine better, too.”

The witcher then glanced down at his armor, still covered in blood. He looked back at Evie and nodded his head again, as if he’d made up his mind about something. 

“I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Okay. I’ll be right here.”

The witcher stood, dropped his weapons to the sand, and then began to slowly take off his armor. A few minutes later, after he’d stripped naked, he walked off the beach and into the sea. He kept walking out until the water was up to his neck, and then he crouched down and completely submerged himself. He scrubbed his hands all over his body – his scalp and chest and arms, even rubbing his finger across his teeth and tongue. Then, he just let himself float, his eyes closed, allowing the water to move him where it wanted. And he talked to Essea. 

“God, please have mercy on me. Have mercy. I know I’m not innocent. I speak to you now, knowing full well that I am guilty. Guilty of torture. Guilty of taking vengeance into my own hands. And guilty of enjoying it all. But I ask…I humbly ask that you somehow forgive me. I don’t know how a just God like you can forgive, but I ask that you do, like King Altachadh did for his son. Because I have no way to cleanse myself of this guilt…so please have mercy.”

Geralt continued to talk until he had nothing left to say, and then, he just lay still, his eyes still closed, floating calmly on the waves.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out in the sea when he, suddenly, felt something bump against both his forehead and the middle of his upper back. Startled, he quickly stood up and opened his eyes. To his amazement, he saw two Delphilumens swimming around him in circles. Then, at once, they both approached him and began to gently bump their snouts against his body. He tentatively reached out with his hand and stroked the body of the creature in front of him. Its light gray skin was smooth to the touch, and up close, he could see just how powerful the creatures were. It was clear why they were able to leap fifteen feet or more into the air. In the bright sunlight, the animals didn’t seem to be giving off their luminescent glow, but Geralt still thought that they were beautiful. 

Then, thinking of his wife, he quickly turned to face the beach. He was about to yell at her to swim out when he looked down and noticed that suddenly, somehow, he was all alone. The two creatures had vanished. He looked around him, shaking his head. He didn’t think it possible that they could swim away that fast, and he began to wonder if he’d just imagined the whole thing. He looked around one last time and then swam back towards the shore.

Evie watched Geralt intently as he walked towards her, the rays of the morning sun shimmering off the drops of water that were still running down his naked body. She looked up at him and smiled. 

“Feel better?”

“Yeah. Not so dirty anymore,” he answered. 

He was just about to tell her about the Delphilumens, when he noticed the look in her eye. He smiled because he recognized that look. He knew it well. He loved it well. 

Evie stood and stepped up close to her husband. “You know, I’m feeling a little dirty myself. I think I may need to go for a swim, too. Will you help me out of my clothes?”

“With pleasure.” 

The story about the Delphilumens could wait, thought the witcher. 

oOo

_Korath Desert_

Philippa, in her owl form, flying near the ceiling of the enormous mausoleum, watched as Professor Gigglethorpe’s body was torn in two. Screams were echoing in her ears, but the screams weren’t from the professor alone. The dozen Zerrikanian warriors that she’d hired as escorts were being slaughtered, their skill with their swords proving useless. She quickly scanned the area and, to her relief, didn’t see her brother among the dead and dying. She assumed that he was under his invisibility spell. She flew towards the long stairwell and passed over the hundreds of steps much more quickly than if she’d been on foot. Halfway up the stairwell, she sensed her brother’s magical signature underneath her. Like her, he, too, was fleeing upward towards the crypt’s open doors. 

Once outside the crypt and under the night’s sky, she immediately changed into her human form.

“Time is of the essence, Oran!” she yelled at the crypt’s entrance.

Thirty seconds later, she heard her brother’s gasping breaths. She instantly cast a portal, and the siblings both jumped through.

Five minutes later, after two more portals, the two landed in Philippa’s luxury, hotel suite in Azabar. 

“Holy hell,” said Oran, collapsing to the floor and still breathing hard.

“That did not go as planned,” the sorceress said in an understated fashion.

“Dear, sister, we’re going to need every warrior in Zerrikania if we’re going back into that.”

“Actually, I have another plan.”

“What’s that? Just forgetting about the whole thing and going back home?” he asked hopefully.

“Don’t be a fool, Oran. No, we’ll simply let the witcher and his little friend do the work for us. And then, whatever they find down there, we’ll simply take it from them.”

“Yeah,” agreed the Ghost, nodding his head. “I like that plan better.”

“Let’s just hope Jezrai has not already earned the second part of her payment.”

oOo

The witcher opened his eyes upon hearing the unmistakable sounds of scurrying insects, and the first thing he noticed was that it was now nighttime. He stood up from where he’d been kneeling in meditation and picked up his silver sword that he’d earlier placed on the ground by his side. Time for work, he thought.

He was a three-hour’s walk east of Azabar, just outside the small, agricultural town of Kradesh. He’d seen a contract on an Azabar notice board that morning from the town’s alderman and had met up with the man in one of the city’s local taverns. With Evie translating, the monster-slayer had discovered that the town had been recently abandoned due to a spate of monster attacks.

“Have him describe the monsters,” Geralt had instructed his wife.

The alderman had spoken rapidly for half a minute before Evie finally turned to her husband with an unhappy look on her face.

“Scorpions,” she’d said. “He says that they look like enormous scorpions…as big as a camel.”

The witcher nodded his head. “Aculeomorphs.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“Very,” he’d replied. “But that’s good.”

“Why is that?” she asked in confusion.

“Because it means I can charge a lot…and we need the coin.”

That conversation had taken place that morning. Now, under the stars, the witcher quickly downed three potions and pulled a Dancing Star from his bandolier. He could hear the ‘clicking’ of the monsters’ mandibles as they approached, making their way to the entrance of their burrow. 

The first creature was just coming up out of the ground when the witcher threw the bomb in its direction and then immediately cast a Quen. The giant scorpion-looking monster caught on fire, causing it to screech, but it didn’t slow down. It was moving quickly to the witcher’s left, and two more were now circling to his right.

He’d never seen an Aculeomorph in person before, but he’d read about them in his bestiary. He had to admit that the tome did an adequate job of describing their appearance. They did indeed look like large scorpions. They were the size of a large bear with two enormous pinchers near the front of their bodies – big enough to cut a grown man in two. As if that weren’t enough, their mouths - in addition to rows of sharp teeth - also had a smaller set of pinchers inside. But their most dangerous feature, in the witcher’s opinion, was their fifteen-foot long tail that ended in a rock-hard aculeus – or stinger. The witcher just hoped that John of Brugge had done just as adequate a job in researching these monsters’ weaknesses as he had their appearance. Regardless, the White Wolf was about to find out.

oOo

The creature turned its head and bellowed loudly and wetly right in the witcher’s face.

“I think she likes you,” said Barcain after a chuckle.

“Swell,” remarked the witcher before climbing aboard the tall animal. “At least her breath is better than yours.”

The money that he’d earned from the Aculeomorph contract allowed them to buy all the supplies they’d need for several weeks in the desert. They had five camels in total – one for each to ride with a spare to serve as a ‘pack’ camel, which would carry their tent, food, and water supply. They’d also bought attire suitable for the desert heat, including coverings for their heads.

Prior to that, they’d again tracked down Uzi in a papaver den. Their second trip to Dreamer’s Row was thankfully much less deadly. One Axii sign later, they’d escorted him to the Golden Dragon, where Evie had spent several hours asking him questions and taking notes. Now, with those notes in her satchel, she turned to the others with a small but excited smile on her face. She felt the same sense of anticipation that had always gripped her before she set off on some important journey to undiscover history’s secrets – whether that journey was in the field or just in a library. 

“Everyone ready?” she asked. 

They all answered in the affirmative and then headed out of Azabar and into the desert, in search of the lost city of Gearrlon.

oOo

In the clearing in front of Jezrai’s home, Philippa and Oran stepped out of a fiery, magical portal. It was mid-day, with the sun, as usual, shining hot and bright.

As the portal was closing behind them, Oran said, “You know, you never mentioned how you knew where this witcheress lives.”

“That’s none of your concern, brother,” answered the sorceress. “Discretion keeps me…” 

But she didn’t finish her thought.

“Discretion keeps you from what?” he asked.

“Be alert, Oran,” warned Philippa, pointing to the front of the house, with its shattered window and wide-open door. “Things are amiss.”

“Stay here. I’ll check it out,” said Oran, and then he immediately cast his invisibility spell. 

Two minutes later, Oran yelled out to his sister from inside the house.

“It’s all clear in here…but you really need to see this.”

As Philippa approached the house, she noticed two things – the flies and the stench. She knew what those two harbingers meant. Thus, she was not surprised when, after walking across the threshold, she saw a decapitated head and two corpses covered in flies. She was a bit shocked, however, to see that one of the corpses belonged to the witcheress from the School of the Scorpion. 

“Damn it all,” hissed Philippa. “I wonder if it was the witcher.”

“I can almost guarantee that it was,” said Oran, standing just inside the bedroom, next to Jezrai’s fly-covered body.

“And just how, pray tell, would you know that?”

“Come into the bedroom, and you’ll see.”

Philippa sighed in exasperation but walked over to the back room. She stepped over her one-time lover’s corpse and then paused at what she saw before her. 

On the wall, written in large, bloody letters was one word – Eilhart.

“Well, there’s good news,” said Oran, also staring at the bloody message. “We can be fairly certain that the witcher is still alive. I mean, that is what you wanted, right?”


	31. Chapter 31

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 19

_The royal palace of Gearrlon; 965 Years Ago_

  
Aerensoska was a Golden Dragon. Three centuries prior, she had been pulled into the world from her own during the Conjunction of the Spheres. After she’d been sucked through a portal, she’d landed in the Korath Desert and had been at a complete loss to explain what had just transpired. She stayed where she’d landed, hoping that another portal would suddenly appear to take her back home. However, after two days of fruitless waiting, she decided to explore the strange, new land. The desert heat suited her well, and she eventually began constructing a nest near a very large oasis that she’d discovered. Her biggest concern – besides not being able to return to her home world - was that she could find no other Golden Dragons. She’d spent weeks flying high above the large desert, but she’d found no other of her kind. 

When she returned to her nest, she discovered that strange, little creatures had arrived at her oasis. These little creatures – they called themselves humans – like her, were not indigenous to the world. But, unlike her, they found the desert an inhospitable environment. They needed both water and shelter, which her oasis could provide. Initially, she was going to eat the little humans – she did require sustenance, after all - but she quickly reconsidered after discovering that they were sentient, thinking creatures. Despite the ferocity a Golden Dragon could display, they were, by nature, typically very gentle and peaceful beings. Aerensoska was no different. 

When she’d first swooped down from the sky with her wings spread wide, the few dozen or so humans drinking from her oasis had, naturally, been terrified. However, after discovering that her curiosity about them did not involve having them for dinner, they began to form a relationship. It was a relationship built on the fact that they were all foreigners in a strange world, hoping for the day when they could return to their own, and realizing that they needed to adapt to their new world as quickly as possible until that day arrived. She soon found herself feeling protective of the defenseless humans, who, without her aid, would have been easily and quickly devoured by most – if not all - of the deadly, carnivorous desert monsters. She pitied them for they had no scales, or fire, or sharp claws, or magic. How could they survive without her? The humans quickly began to view her as their leader – and not simply because of her physical and magical powers. It was also because of her kindness and wisdom.

With time, more and more humans began to wander in from the desert. It wasn’t long before they – with Aerensoska’s help – began to build a small community around the large oasis. Soon after that, the women started birthing babies – lots of babies. The Golden Dragon was amazed at how fast and how often the humans reproduced. Within a century, there were thousands of residents in the city of Gearrlon. Aerensoska viewed them all as her children. 

Early on, less than a decade after the Conjunction, while Gearrlon was still only a small village, Aerensoska was faced with an important decision. Despite being surrounded by hundreds of people, Aerensoska carried a loneliness in her heart. She still had found no other of her kind in her travels, and as a dragon, she clearly did not fit within Gearrlon society. While she cared for the humans, she was contemplating leaving Gearrlon for good and searching the planet until she finally found another dragon from her home world. She discussed her dilemma with one of her closest confidants, one of the city’s tradesmen – a merchant who dealt exclusively with glass products. During their conversation, she confided in him that she possessed the magical ability to transform her body into that of any other species. The merchant encouraged her to disregard looking for other dragons and to simply take the form of a human. He told her that it made the most sense because, then, she could completely fit in with all those around her, which would fill the loneliness that she felt inside. 

Back in her own world, Golden Dragons rarely saw the need to take on a second form, and Aerensoska had been no different. Though, she had seen it done by others. It was not a decision that she took lightly for she knew that it was a one-time choice. Afterwards, she’d still be able to transform back into her natural, dragon form. However, she’d never be able to transform into any other types of creatures. But, when she looked at her life and saw that the humans were the only other thinking beings in the desert, she realized that the decision wasn’t really that difficult after all. The consequences of that choice would be felt in the centuries to come.

Initially, the humans were amazed at Aerensoska’s magic and her transformation. She eagerly accepted their invitations into their homes. Before the change, she’d been unable to enter given that, as a dragon, she was actually bigger than many of their houses. But, after taking on her human form, she ate meals with them and swapped stories of their home worlds. She cared for their children and began teaching them the ways of magic. She started to become one of them. 

When she first encountered the strange, little creatures called humans, she was intrigued. They had creative minds that could come up with innovative solutions to whatever problems they faced. They also had a capacity to show compassion and generosity to one another. She’d spent many nights in her nest listening to them laughing and singing in their huts, longing for that same type of intimate connection. Those qualities all reminded her of home and of her fellow Golden Dragons. However, she also saw another side to the humans. They often displayed pettiness and jealousy. And they had a penchant for violence, as evidenced by fights routinely breaking out within the small village. There was even the occasional murder. Aerensoska didn’t understand. To her knowledge, no Golden Dragon had ever killed one of their own. It was simply unthinkable. 

But those were her thoughts prior to her transformation. The more time she spent in human form, the more she started to think like them, to act like them. In time, the once peace-loving Aerensoska found herself the leader of a city full of warriors. By the turn of the century, the Gearrlon raiders were routinely invading Haakland, Zerrikania, and even the Western lands on the other side of the Tir Torchair Mountains. No army could withstand the power of a dragon, and as the warriors returned home with more and more plunder and slaves, the city-state of Gearrlon – along with its fierce reputation - continued to grow. 

Aerensoska and the human mages combined their magic with some innovative engineering to create channels of water that radiated out from the oasis, heading in each of the four cardinal directions. Those streams irrigated the lands surrounding the growing city, allowing for crops to be grown. The older and weaker slaves were put to work in the fields while, on the backs of the stronger slaves, an impressive palace was built full of gold, silver, and jewels. A palace where the Golden Dragon and her mage council ruled and resided for another century.

And, it was then, at the height of Gearrlon’s power, that Aerensoska began to have disturbing, confusing dreams. Her mind was troubled. Neither she nor any on her mage council could successfully interpret what the recurring dream might mean. 

One day, one of the throne room’s young, female elven servants courageously spoke to Aerensoska.

“Beg your pardon, Your Highness,” the servant said, kneeling before the throne, “but I know of one who could interpret your dreams.”

“And who would that be, little one?” the Queen of Gearrlon asked.

“His name is Taibhsear, son of Creideamh, high priest of the Aen Seidhe, and prophet of Essea - the one, true, living God.”

“Your Highness,” spoke one of her advisors, “surely you will not seek out this slave.” 

The queen pierced the advisor with her fiery-blue eyes so that he quickly bowed his head in deference. She then turned to the young elf. 

“Little one, bring me this prophet, Taibhsear.”

oOo

_The City of Golden Towers, Nilfgaard_

“So, that’s my mission, and that’s the plan,” said Malek. “I can’t in good conscience ask any of you to join me, but if you choose to, I’ll be grateful. And know that, if you decide to go your own way now, I understand. I won’t think anything less of any of you. You’ve proved your courage and honor to the Empire a hundred times over.”

He was sitting at the head of a table in his living quarters in the royal palace. Around him were the remnants of ‘his’ men. There were only six of them left, but they’d all been under his command for at least five years, with half of them having ridden with him for decades. Just as he did before every mission, he briefed his men on the plan of action. Malek had been leading others long enough to know that clearly communicating with his soldiers was vital to mission success. While not every detail needed to be shared, he knew that no good leader would ever withhold critical elements of the mission from his subordinates. To do so lowered morale, and it also caused confusion, disorder, and - if the soldiers lived - total distrust in the commanding officer when the next mission rolled around.   
  
Since leaving the Northern realms, Malek had been pondering what his next course of action should be. He’d been serving the Empire since he was a teenager – for almost four decades. It was all he knew. He wasn’t even sure what else he could do. But, on the long ship-ride down to the Nilfgaardian capital, he’d been questioning if that was enough anymore. He’d asked himself what was truly important to him now – especially now that he certainly had more years behind him than he had in front. He’d stood on the deck of the southbound ship, resting his hands on the railing and looking out towards the western horizon – with nothing to see but the waves of the ocean and the clouds in the sky. He’d taken a folded piece of parchment out of an inside front pocket, handling it very carefully because of its worn and fragile condition. He’d gently unfolded the paper and peered down at it for what must have been the thousandth time in his life. As he looked at the charcoal drawing, he breathed very slowly and deeply. Eventually, he clenched his jaw and gave himself a short nod of his head. It was then that he’d made his decision.

Now, he was going around the table, looking each of his men in the eye. One by one, they gave him their answer.

“I appreciate you all,” he said with a small smile. “Right, so ready your gear and mounts…do whatever else you need to do tonight. We’ll ride east at sun-up.”

oOo

_Korath Desert_

A relatively uneventful week had passed in the desert, which was just what the four Westerners needed in the aftermath of Azabar. About the only excitement and danger that they had faced had been when they’d come across a small swarm of monstrous flies that the Zerrikanians commonly referred to as tik-tik. The swarm was small – only eight to ten of them – but the flies were not. They were the size of a man’s closed fist and had the ability to spit a numbing-agent from their mouths that would temporarily paralyze their prey. The witcher had said that their scientific name was Glosseptera and that one bite from them could potentially put a grown man into a long-term coma – and eventually lead to death - if medical attention wasn’t received in time. Luckily, the monster-slayer had dispatched them fairly easily with Igni, a couple of bombs, and his silver sword.   
  
The group had quickly realized that the best time to travel on the desert sands was during the night and the pre-noon hours – especially considering that they had the witcher’s night vision to point out any dangers in their way after sundown. Thus, they’d gotten into the habit of resting and sleeping during the hottest hours of the day inside their tent. It was there that the four were having another discussion about what they could expect at the end of their journey.

“Do you think it’s actually there?” asked Barcain. “The Sword of Destruction?”

Evie shook her head. “I don’t know…but it wouldn’t surprise me. I mean, Gearrlon - if the stories are even half-true - sounds like just the place the Sword of Destruction would be.”

“And an inanimate object could curse a place like that?” he asked.

“Again, I don’t know. But, why not?” 

She then spoke to her husband sitting beside her. 

“Geralt, you’re the expert on curses. Could an object – like a sword – bring a curse upon an entire city?”

He shrugged. “Curses can be very complicated. They don’t all follow the same rules or act in the same manner. So, it’s hard to say. I’ve seen houses, towers, palaces – even a tiny island – under a curse, but I don’t recall ever hearing of an entire city under one. It’d have to be one helluva powerful curse, but yeah…it’s possible, in theory. But, if we’re talking about the city being under a curse, then I’m not sure the Sword, itself, has anything to do with it. Those are two separate issues.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, objects can clearly be cursed – jewelry, bones, even weapons. So, it is possible that the Sword could carry a curse, as well. But I wouldn’t think that it would affect an entire city. More than likely, it’d probably just affect whoever was wielding it. Of course, I could be wrong. And as long as I’m giving a lesson on curses here, just so you know, most of the time, a curse is focused on a specific individual – not a location or an object - so that no matter where the person goes, the curse goes with them.”

“You’ve broken a lot of curses before?” asked Lydial.

“Not every one that I’ve ever come across, but quite a few, yeah.”

“So, then…how do curses vary in strength. What makes one curse more powerful than another?”

“Well, like I said, they’re complicated. It’s not like dealing with a math problem or…an alchemical recipe. Add one part this, add two parts that and voila, you’ve got a Grade A curse. I have no proof – this is just my opinion - but I think curses are somehow connected to the Chaos. And just like how the Power is not of this world – it arrived with the Conjunction - curses are not of this plane or realm either. They’re mystical, mysterious. So, it’s always been my opinion that the strength of the curse is somehow related to how well the person making it is connected to the Power. It makes sense since the most powerful curses I’ve ever come across were cast by mages. I mean, I know it’s a fairy-tale cliché that evil witches cast curses, but…clichés are clichés for a reason.”

“But even ‘normal’ folk – non-magic users - have cast curses, right?” asked Evie.

“Yeah. It’s why sometimes curses can even be cast unintentionally. But, typically, only if their emotions are extremely high when they utter their damning words.”

“What kind of emotions, exactly?” asked Lydial.

“Hate,” he said simply. “Some might argue with me and say that curses can be cast from extreme envy or jealously or vengeance. But, in my experience, even if those emotions are involved, hate is at the foundation. It’s why forgiveness is usually the easiest way to break a curse.” 

“Wait,” said Evie. “I’m not sure I follow. How does that work?”

“Well, obviously, it can’t be used in every situation. But in those circumstances when I have a chance to communicate with the person, or ghost, or…entity that cast the curse in the first place, then I try to encourage them towards forgiveness.”

“And that actually works?” asked Lydial.

“If they’re truly willing, yes. Think about it – if hate is what fueled the curse, then forgiveness can break it…because it is impossible to truly forgive someone if you still hate them. It just can’t be done. To forgive means to let go of the anger. And when the hate goes, the curse goes.”

“So, how often does that work – getting the ‘curser’ to forgive the ‘cursee’?” asked Evie.

Geralt smirked. “Hardly ever. Very few of us are _truly_ willing to forgive.”

“So, if you’re correct in your assumptions,” interjected Lydial, “then the most powerful curses would be those tied to both intense hate and to high amounts of magical Chaos, right?”

The witcher looked everyone in the eye and nodded.

“And that could be awaiting us in Gearrlon,” said Lydial.

Again, the witcher nodded his head.

“Swell,” said Evie.

oOo

_The City of Golden Towers, Nilfgaard_

“Fringilla, sweetheart, don’t tease me,” said Donato Vigo, excitement clearly in his voice. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Well, no, not 100% sure,” answered his cousin. “Once those monsters showed up, we got out of the city as fast as possible. So, I don’t know exactly what happened to Emhyr’s army – or Radovid’s for that matter. But, given what kind of total destruction I saw those monsters do in Novigrad, I’d be shocked if there’s a stone left standing in Tretogor. And, I have to believe that most – if not all – of Emhyr’s forces were wiped out, as well.”

“That’s incredible news!”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Gilla, sweetie, you’re missing the big picture here. Don’t you see? Emhyr’s reign is essentially over. There is no possible way he can recover from such a defeat. Yes, it’s a shame that our poor, young, brave lads had to die, but he’ll get the blame for that and rightfully so.” Donato was now smiling widely, his eyes looking off into the distance. “Oh, I can just picture the noose slipping around that arrogant tyrant’s throat. He has spurned our family’s overtures for the last time.” 

When Fringilla didn’t respond, he looked back down at her. He then frowned.

“Why aren’t you excited? This is what we wanted. The Vigo’s at the top of society, where we belong. With my connections to both the other nobles and to the trades’ council, I should be crowned Nilfgaard’s new ruler before the month is up. And you…Fringilla Vigo, Duchess of Toussaint…has a nice ring to it, right?”

She gave a small smile. “What more could a girl hope for?”

Donato, his thoughts now a whirlwind in his mind, missed her tone.

“So, what of Malek?” he asked. 

“What about him?”

“Well, is he on our side? Can he be trusted? Should I keep him on staff once I’m coronated?”

“I…I don’t know yet,” she answered tentatively.

“Gilla, you can’t be serious. You’ve been working the man for months. You must have him under your…prodigious charms by now, right?” At that, Donato glanced at his cousin’s impressive cleavage with all the subtlety of a rampaging chort. 

“I don’t know whose side he’s on, Donato. All I know right now is that he’s still planning on pursuing the historian. One of his spies contacted him recently with more news on the woman. He’s leaving the capital in the morning.”

The smile fell off Donato’s face. “Why would he continue with Emhyr’s mission? You mentioned earlier that you thought he was done working for Emhyr.”

“Exactly - I think. I don’t know. It’s just the feeling I’ve had since we left Redania. He still doesn’t tell me much. He’s happy to share his bed, just not his thoughts. So, I still don’t know what his ultimate motivation is in pursuing the woman.”

“Huh…well, no matter. Even if Malek can track down whatever it is that Emhyr wants, it’s too late. Nothing will save him now.” Then he paused for a moment. “Though, I am still curious as to why this historian is so important. It might be a good idea to keep up your charade with the man. Perhaps, they’ll both be useful to my new empire. I can determine that later. Right now, I have other priorities. Either way, it looks like you’ll need to pack a bag.”

Fringilla curtsied and said sarcastically, “Yes, Your Highness.”

Donato smiled. “Oh, I do love the sound of that.”

oOo

_Azabar_

Philippa Eilhart stepped out of a portal and onto the balcony of her hotel room. Oran was there, reclining on the soft cushions of the sofa and drinking a cool beverage.  
He came alert upon his sister’s presence.

“So?” he asked.

“It appears that they are traveling in the right direction. So, clearly, the historian - and not that fool witcher - must be leading them. I’ll fly over and check on them again tomorrow, but, by my calculations, they should arrive in Gearrlon in two days.”

“Where we’ll already be waiting and watching.”

“Indeed,” she answered. “Now give me that drink.”

oOo

_The royal palace of Gearrlon_

The young servant girl – escorted by multiple guards – found Taibhsear in his hut that he shared with his family. After being informed that the queen had demanded his presence in her throne room, he pleaded to the guards for five minutes to collect his things. He rushed to his bedroom, where he fell on his knees and sought Essea’s wisdom. This request from the queen was not unexpected. For the past month, Taibhsear had been hearing the voice of God, telling the prophet and priest that he would lead the Aen Seidhe out of Gearrlon.

Less than a half-hour later, Taibhsear stood before Aerensoska.

“Can you interpret this vision, prophet?” she asked after she had finished recounting the details of the recurring and unsettling dream.

“Your Highness, no wise enchanter, mage, or diviner can truly explain the mystery of your dream. But there is a God in heaven who reveals mysteries. He has shown Queen Aerensoska a glimpse into the days to come.”

“You did not answer my question, prophet. Do not make me ask a second time,” she warned with a touch of annoyance.  
  
“Your Highness, I do have knowledge of the mystery of your dream, but not because I am wiser than anyone else in Gearrlon. Only because Essea, the God above, has chosen to reveal it to me so that you may heed his warning.”

“So, it is a portent.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Explain.”

“The bright, yellow sunflower growing up from the sand represents you, Your Highness.”

“And the dozens of black snakes slithering in a circle around the flower?”

Taibhsear looked around the throne room at the guards and the mage council all listening intently.

“They are humans, Your Majesty. Specifically, your council of mages.”

The venomous uproar that followed was expected, but the queen silenced them all with a look and a single word.

“Continue, prophet,” she ordered, after quiet was restored.

“Then, the vipers burrow into the sand and bite the roots of the flower. It transforms from the bright, yellow flower into the dark, shriveled plant with a carnivorous maw at its head. A maw full of teeth, constantly devouring the butterflies in the air around it. This represents how you have let man change you. How you have been…corrupted, Your Majesty.”

There was an audible sucking in of breath throughout the throne room. The queen did not react in any way other than a slight narrowing of her eyes so Taibhsear continued.

“The devouring of the butterflies signifies how you took the Aen Seidhe from their land and enslaved them here.”

“So far, prophet, your interpretation is only describing details that have already happened. You had me to believe that this dream predicts future events.”

“Yes, Your Highness, that is next,” Taibhsear said. “The plant and the snakes withering in the blazing sun and, then, being completely covered by the sand storm will be God’s judgment on you and your city…if you do not free the Aen Seidhe to return to our homeland.”

After a short pause, he pressed forward with speaking.

“Similar to you having received these visions, I have received a word from our God, Essea, in these last weeks. And this is his message to you, Your Majesty, ‘The Aen Seidhe have been exiled for ten score. I have heard their cries for mercy, and now, the time of their discipline is fulfilled. Let my chosen return home.’”

The throne room was utterly quiet. 

“Leave me, prophet,” the queen finally spoke. “You have given me much to think about.”

oOo

_Korath Desert_

“This has got to be it,” said Evie with excitement in her voice. She was standing on top of a large sand dune, skimming through the notes in her hand. “Professor Uziraiha said that it was a ten-day journey. He indicated that there was a large valley or depression between two high hills, and that there were dozens of small undulations within the valley. Also, that it had what seemed to be a dry river bed running through its center.”

Barcain looked around them in the early morning sunlight. “Well, this place does look like what you’re describing,” he said in agreement. “Where did he say the entrance was?”

Evie had completely memorized her notes, but she turned to the correct page just out of habit. 

“A larger mound – a small hill - near the center of the valley, west of the dry river bed.”

“That’s gotta be it, right there,” said Lydial, pointing down and slightly to her left.

“Only one way to find out,” said the witcher, unsheathing his silver sword. “Everyone stay here. Stay on your camels. And if you hear me yell, you take off. Got it?” 

He was talking to all of them, but he was staring at his wife as he spoke. Lydial and Barcain nodded in understanding, but Evie just stared right back at him with a frown on her face. She didn’t shake her head in the negative, but neither did she nod in the affirmative. The witcher just sighed. He knew that she’d never leave him behind, even if it meant her death, too.

oOo

_The royal palace of Gearrlon_

Queen Aerensoska and her six mage-advisors sat around the table in her council chambers.

“I must say that I am surprised,” said the queen. “I expected resistance from all of you regarding this decision.”

“Your Highness,” said the eldest of her councilors, “it is true that I was initially hesitant with your proposed decree. The Aen Seidhe slaves play a vital role in our society. But your wisdom surpasses all, Your Majesty. It can only be matched by your beauty. So, if you believe that their release will save our great city, then by all means...” He finished with a bow of his head.

The rest of the council mumbled their agreement. 

“Let us raise our cups to our Magnificence,” said another mage. “And to the day our city was led in a new, enlightened direction.”

This toast was answered with all raising and drinking from their cups. As the queen set her chalice back down on the table, all the mages slowly turned their eyes upon her. 

Suddenly, her eyes bulged slightly as her throat constricted. She felt a tightening in her chest, and she knew what had been done. She stood and glared at her treasonous council around her. Her breathing was coming fast and shallow. 

“May the world see you as the monsters that you are,” she snarled before falling to the floor. 

A second later, the first mage was standing over her, looking into her still open eyes and holding her cup in his hand.

“The paralyzing venom of the tik-tik. It worked much faster than I thought,” he said with a smile. “Goodbye, my queen.”

oOo

_Korath Desert_

For the past quarter of an hour, the witcher had searched on every side of the mound for some type of entrance. He’d even climbed on top of the sandy hill but found nothing at the summit either. As he was walking back down the other side, he stopped when he saw a small crevice. The way it was angled, it would have been impossible to see from below. He hopped down into the crevice and quickly saw that one side of it was not made of soil but of man-made stone. He nodded to himself, thinking that he’d finally found some remnant of Gearrlon. He saw a dark opening at one end of the crevice so he walked over and peered down into it. The drop only looked to be about ten feet. At that point, he really wished his medallion was functioning. He sheathed his sword and let himself down feet first. 

Geralt landed on his feet and moved quickly away from the loose sand pouring down on his head. He looked around and saw that he was standing in the ruins of a stone building. He appeared to be in some type of entryway. On the opposite side of the room were two large doors that were wide open. There were no other doors, windows, or openings in the room.

The witcher simply stood still for the longest time, letting his senses take over, but there were no strange noises or smells. Eventually, he walked slowly over to the doorway and saw that on the other side of the threshold was a long, descending staircase. He stood at the top step and looked down. There were no railings on the stone staircase, and on either side was a drop-off into darkness. Even with his enhanced vision, he couldn’t see all the way to the bottom. Then, suddenly, he caught the scent of a very familiar odor. The smell of decaying flesh was wafting up from below. The witcher simply nodded, as if he’d been expecting it.

The witcher reached into his pouch and pulled out three potions, one of which was Cat. After drinking down the contents, he took his sword and pressed the tip of it onto the top of the second step with as much force as he could. It held firm. He exhaled deeply and then began descending into the darkness.

oOo

Philippa, in her owl form, circled high above the ruins of Gearrlon. She saw the witcher find the crevice located on the small hill and then jump down into it. She was so very tempted to fly down right then and follow the witcher below, but she knew she shouldn’t show herself too soon. She needed to wait until he found the Sword. And if the witcher, like Gigglethorpe, died in his attempt to obtain it – that wouldn’t be such a bad outcome, either, she thought. At least, then, she’d never have to deal with the fool again. She glanced back towards the southeast and saw the three others waiting, still sitting atop their camels. She flapped her wings and flew off towards the west, to a tall sand dune behind which hid her brother.

oOo

Several minutes later, the witcher finally made it to the bottom of the staircase. He looked around and saw that he was in an enormous hall. On the other side of the hall from where he stood - easily a hundred feet away - was a raised dais, on top of which was a large sarcophagus. He quickly looked to his left and right and saw a dozen thick, circular pillars throughout the hall that he assumed reached all the way to the room’s ceiling. He could only assume because from where he now stood, he could no longer see the top. The pillars just faded into the darkness.

The witcher began to tentatively walk forward across the hall towards the dais. As he made his way past one of the pillars, he saw dragons in various poses carved into the stone. He was halfway across the hall when what he saw next made him completely stop.

There were six very large statues, three on his left and three on his right. They lined the walkway and were facing each other. It appeared to the witcher that they had been placed specifically to look like sentries. He’d never seen anything like them. They all looked like the end result of some crazed sorcerer’s experiment – experiments to create centaur-like creatures, half-man and half-monster. On the floor around them were mutilated corpses and random body parts that looked relatively fresh. The witcher suspected they’d all been down there just a little over a week. Whoever they were – it had clearly not gone well for them.

Two of the stone statues were twelve-foot tall vipers whose bottom halves were coiled on the floor and whose top halves were raised up, poised to strike. However, the top half was human – or, at least, partly human. It had a human’s chest, arms, and head, but on either side of the head were two large snake heads. All three heads’ mouths were agape, with fangs bared. Even the human mouth possessed viper fangs. 

The next set of statues were a cross between a human and a giant scorpion. They looked just like the Aculeomorphs that the witcher had fought the previous week in Kradesh except that coming out of the top of the monster’s thorax was a human upper torso and head. The human part of the monster carried two long spears in its hands, which seemed to match the fifteen-foot-long tail that was curled forward over the top of the human head. The statues were as big as a fiend.

The last two statues, which also towered over the witcher, were half man, half giant lizard. The lizard’s mouth was open, displaying rows and rows of sharp teeth, and protruding from the mouth was a very long, tendril-like tongue. The human part of the monster held a long whip in each hand.

The statues looked like they were made of stone or marble, but he could swear that the eyes – of both the monsters’ heads and the human heads – were following him when he moved. The witcher cursed under breath and, again, wished that his medallion still detected magic. These had to be the nightmares that Uzi had described seeing all those years ago. He didn’t know who or what brought the statues to life, but he hoped that whatever it was would hold off until he was out of the area. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to kill even one of those monsters much less all six.

With his silver sword drawn, he kept his body turning in a slow circle as he walked past all six statues. He didn’t want to expose his back to any of them for more than a second. Eventually, he made it past all the statues and was now only fifteen feet from the sarcophagus. He kept backpedaling slowly, focused on the statues, until he felt the back of his foot bump against the first step of the dais. 

The witcher’s breaths were very slow and deliberate, and he was doing his best to control his heartrate. He needed to stay calm. He took one last look at the statues, breathed out slowly, and then turned to look at the sarcophagus, five feet above him. He looked around the top of the dais, but didn’t see any other furnishings. However, on the wall behind the sarcophagus was one of the biggest tapestries the witcher had ever seen. On it was depicted a Golden Dragon, its wings spread wide and fire spewing from its mouth. He exhaled slowly again, swallowed, and then raised his left foot into the air. As soon as he placed it down on the first step on the dais, an apparition suddenly materialized at the top of the steps. The witcher’s eyes went wide.

oOo

“I’m not waiting any longer,” said Evie. “He’s been gone too long. Something’s happened to him.”

“I agree,” said Lydial. 

Without even bothering to hear what Barcain thought, Evie urged her camel forward and down the dune towards where they’d last seen Geralt. She dismounted when she arrived at the large mound and looked behind her to see that her two kin had followed. They quickly hobbled their camels so that they couldn’t flee into the desert and leave them stranded, and then they climbed the hill towards where they’d seen Geralt disappear. 

oOo

Geralt took his foot off the first step and placed it back down on the floor.

The witcher glanced at the specter from head to toe, taking in every detail as quickly as possible. It was not a deadly wraith, but a ghost still in human form – a stunningly beautiful female form that shimmered with a golden glow. In fact, it was, without a doubt, the most beautiful ghost he’d ever seen. She had long, pale hair, on top of which she wore a crown, the points of which looked like flames. In addition to the crown, she had jewels around her neck, wrists, and fingers, and she was dressed in an exquisite dress of regal-appearance, though it did seem to be from a different time period. 

The ghost was silent for the longest time, staring at the witcher just as he was doing to her. Then, she slowly glided down the steps toward the monster-slayer until she stopped just a foot away. She was clearly invading his space, and he didn’t like it. He wanted to bring his silver sword up into a defensive position, but he refrained, keeping his blade down at his side. He knew that he was taking a gamble, but, hell, the entire trip down there had been a gamble. She gazed at him with a curious look, and then she spoke.

oOo

Five minutes later, Barcain found the crevice halfway up one side of the mound and called Evie and Lydial over. They looked into the crevice and saw the black hole on one end. 

“Damn it,” said Evie. “I didn’t even think about needing torches. I’ll go down and get them. I’ll be right back.”

oOo

“I’m sorry,” the witcher said, “but I can’t understand you.”

The ghost had spoken in a language that Geralt had never heard before.

“I said…that you have the eyes of a dragon,” she replied in perfect Common. “Are you human?” 

Her voice held a touch of haughtiness. It reminded him of Yennefer’s.

The witcher shook his head. “No. I’m a witcher.”

“I am unfamiliar with that word. What are witchers?”

“Mutated beings, created to kill dangerous monsters.”

“Created by whom?”

“Originally, by humans. Later, by other witchers.”

“Created by humans to kill dangerous monsters,” the beautiful ghost repeated. Then she shook her head and a sneer came to her face. “Humans are the most dangerous monsters.”

Geralt nodded. “I am aware.”

“What is your name, witcher?”

“Geralt. And yours?”

“I am Aerensoska, once mighty Queen of Gearrlon. Now, the queen of desolation.” She paused for just a moment before continuing. “You have come here for a reason, witcher, and I ask everyone who comes the same question. But choose your answer carefully. How you respond could have severe consequences. My question - what do you seek here?”

The witcher slowly sheathed his sword to buy himself some time. As he looked into Aerensoska’s mesmerizingly-beautiful face, his mind went through a dozen possible answers. Finally, he spoke.

“Your Majesty, what would happen if I choose not to answer?”

“Curious. None have ever chosen not to answer.”

“Would you allow me to leave?”

Aerensoska thought for a moment before answering. “Yes, but you’d be required to leave a payment, for disturbing me.”

“And that would be?”

“Your sword would suffice.”

Geralt cursed to himself.

“If I leave my sword but return later to answer your question, will I be able to have my sword back?”

The ghost smiled, but it was chilling. “That, witcher, depends upon your answer.”

The witcher nodded and slowly unsheathed his silver sword. He then knelt in front of Aerensoska, never taking his eyes off of hers, and placed the sword at her feet. 

He then stood and said, “I’ll be back.”

“And I’ll be waiting.”

oOo

After tossing a lit torch down into the dark room, Barcain stuck his head down into the hole at the end of the crevice to look around. Not seeing any clear danger, he dropped into the hole himself, and then he proceeded to help both Lydial and Evie as they dropped feet first onto the stone floor. At that point, he picked up his torch, and Lydial and Evie lit theirs from his. 

Evie looked across the room and said, “Looks like we’re going down.”

As the three of them approached the dark stairwell, the witcher suddenly appeared before them as if a ghost. 

All three screamed or yelled. 

“Damn it, Geralt!” screamed Evie. “What have I told you about sneaking up on me? You move too quiet. You know that.” 

Then, she hugged him tightly with one arm. 

“I was so worried.”

“You have a right to be. What Uzi described to us - it’s real, and it’s down there.”

“But, you’re…you’re safe. So…what happened?” she asked, confused.

Geralt quickly explained to the three just what he’d seen and done down in the crypt. 

“Well, we know that the answer to her question is not ‘knowledge,’” said Evie. “According to Uzi, that was his answer, and it turned into a massacre. What answer would not cause the monsters to come alive?” 

Evie seemed to be asking herself more than Geralt. She then looked at him. 

“Did you ask her any questions?”

“Other than her name, I don’t think so.”

“Do you think she’d be open to answering some of our questions before we give her an answer. Maybe talking to her will give us some clues.”

“There’s no ‘we’ in this,” the witcher said. “There’s no way any of you are going down there. If I give the wrong answer, we’ll all be slaughtered. After seeing what’s down there, I honestly don’t know how Uzi escaped.”

“Geralt, if you’re going back down there, then I’m going with you,” said Evie with conviction. 

“We could die, Evie.”

She then looked him squarely in the eyes. “Then, I’ll die with my husband.”

Geralt just shook his head, clearly frustrated.

“Remember what you told me?” asked Evie. “Wherever I go, you go. Well, it’s the same with me. In fact, I should have gone down there with you in the first place. Just like I should have gone up the mountain with you to that witcheress’ house. In fact, no more going off by yourself anymore. It’s a new rule.”

Geralt didn’t say anything for several seconds. “Damn, you can be hard-headed.”

She gave a small smile. “About the things that matter – like you.”

He shook his head again. 

“Okay,” he said with resignation in his voice. He then looked at Lydial and Barcain. 

“What about you two? Gonna stubbornly march to your death, as well?”

“Yes,” said Lydial, “but I think we should pray first.”

“That actually sounds like a good idea,” said the witcher.

oOo

“You are Aen Seidhe,” said Aerensoska, staring at Lydial. Before any of the four Westerners could even address her, the queen had spoken to the full-blood elf.

“I am, Your Majesty,” replied Lydial.

“And do you, perchance, know the Aen Seidhe God?” 

“I do. His name is Essea.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“Not in a physical sense, no. But, spiritually, yes. And I’ve seen him work his wonders in my life - in subtle, quiet ways.”

“I have seen him neither, but, like you, I have seen him work. But his ways were neither subtle nor quiet.”

“I would truly love to hear of your experience with him, Your Highness,” said Lydial.

Aerensoska gazed at Lydial for a moment before making up her mind. For the next half hour, she told the four of her history, from the moment she arrived in the world until she was poisoned by her mage council.

“The council told the Gearrlon citizens that I had died by natural causes and buried me here in this sarcophagus. But I was not dead. At least, not yet. My magic fought off the poison for as long as it could. Though I was mostly paralyzed, it kept my brain and internal organs working. Eventually though, I succumbed – to the poison or, perhaps, to simply dehydration. I don’t suppose it matters now. However, my last words acted as a curse, and the traitorous men of my council began to slowly transform into the true monsters that they are. The hideous beasts you see there.” She pointed to the six statues. “But, for reasons unknown to me, I, like them, cannot pass on. It seems I’m cursed, as well. To stay here in this ruined crypt, as the Queen of Desolation, with nothing but my enemies to keep me company for eternity, regretting that I ever listened to that merchant of glass. And that, then, brings us to your God, Essea.”

“Yes. You said that you saw Essea at work. What exactly did he do?” asked Lydial.

“Taibhsear was informed by the council – the new oligarchy of Gearrlon – that the Aen Seidhe would not be permitted to return to their homeland. The next day, thousands of tik-tik swarmed the city. I did not see this, as I was in my sarcophagus, but my council has told me of what transpired. The insects completely destroyed the city’s crops, and half the residents were bitten. No Aen Seidhe, though. An amazing coincidence, no?” she asked with raised eyebrows.

“Then, the next day, the oasis and the rivers flowing from it dried up. Filled with nothing but sand. Nothing the mages did could counteract whatever was happening. On the third day, fire and rock rained down from the sky, destroying all Gearrlon homes. Killing thousands more. Turning everything into rubble. It was only then that the ‘wise’ council allowed the Aen Seidhe to leave.

“But it was too late to save the city. The few citizens who remained alive fled into the desert. I don’t know what happened to them, but I doubt it was pleasant. If they were able to make it to Haakland or Zerrikania, I’m sure they were killed for what we had done. The fourth day, a sandstorm came to the city and lasted for weeks, burying the ruins of the city under the desert. Where I and my faithful advisors have been ever since.

“So, yes, I have seen – indirectly – your God’s hand at work. His wrath…his judgment is a terrible thing. And he punishes me still all these centuries later. That is all that I can think. His prophet said that I had become corrupted. It is true. I was once a peaceful Golden Dragon, like all Golden Dragons. But I fell prey to the human heart’s insatiable quest for power. I brought shame on my kind, and I have had to live with that all these years. That must be why I still haunt this ruined city instead of moving on to the next realm.”

After hearing Aerensoska’s story, the four didn’t immediately reply. They were still just trying to process everything she’d said. 

“Now you know of my sad tale of woe. So, I will ask you…what do you seek here?”

The four were looking around at each other, waiting for someone to come up with a brilliant idea. Evie thought about everything that she’d just heard Aerensoska say. She thought about all the different answers that she might give. She knew that ‘knowledge’ was the wrong answer to give. She also figured that things like riches, power, and glory would lead to a similar outcome. Those were the typical answers that men would give. And, then, she simply thought about the truth. Why not just tell her the truth? If Essea truly was leading her on this quest, then he’d give her the right words to say. 

“We seek peace, Your Highness,” said Evie. 

Aerensoska turned her head and carefully appraised Evie. 

“Curious,” said the queen. “How do you expect to find peace out here, in the ruins of Gearrlon?”

“We want to find a powerful sword. The Sword of Destruction. Did the Aen Seidhe bring it here with them?” Evie asked.

Suddenly, Aerensoska’s countenance changed. The anger was visible on her face.

“So, you have deceived me,” she said. “You want power after all – like all humans.”

At that point, Geralt heard noises coming from behind him. He turned to see that the statues’ eyes were glowing red and that their limbs were coming to life.

“No, wait, wait!” yelled Evie. “We want to destroy the Sword! We want to destroy it!”

Aerensoska lifted a hand, and suddenly the statues turned back to stone.

“Explain yourself, little one.”

“There are others – many others – who seek this sword for its power. We seek it so that we can destroy it. So that no one else can ever use it again.”

Evie then went on to explain to Aerensoska what she knew of the Sword of Destruction.

“And you thought this sword was here?” asked the queen after Evie had finished. 

“We had hoped.”

Aerensoska shook her head. “It was never here. If it is as powerful as you say, my magic would have sensed it.”

Upon hearing that, Barcain cursed. 

“All this way for nothing. Who else is ready to get out of this place?” he asked as he turned and headed towards the staircase. 

Lydial thanked Aerensoska for sharing her story, and then she, too, headed after Barcain.

Geralt looked at the queen and then down to the floor at his sword. “May I?”

“Yes, witcher. Take your sword.”

He nodded his head in both thanks and deference, sheathed his sword, and then looked at his wife. 

“Come on, Evie. It’s time to go.”

He started to walk away, expecting Evie to be following right behind him, but when he turned around, she was still standing in front of and facing Aerensoska. After moving back to her side, he quickly glanced at the shimmering specter before looking back his wife. 

“Evie, what’s going on?” 

“I want to help her.” Then, to Aerensoska, she said, “I want to help you.”

The apparition smiled. “How do you propose to do that, little one?”

“You said that you think that you’re stuck here as a ghost – not allowed to move on - as punishment from Essea. But, what if it’s not because of him? What if it’s due to a curse? My husband is an expert on curses. He says that they’re complicated. That they don’t always act the way you think they will, and that, sometimes, they can be cast unintentionally.”

“Who is your husband?”

Evie smiled and nodded her head to her right. “This guy.”

A small smile came to Aerensoska’s face. 

“Is that true – about curses?” she asked, addressing the monster-slayer.

The witcher nodded.

“Geralt, could her curse against the mages be what has trapped her here?”

“Yeah, anything’s possible.” 

“So, if her curse against them was broken, then maybe she’d be free to move on?”

“Again, it’s possible.”

“So, what do I have to do to break the curse?” asked Aerensoska, looking at Geralt.

“It’s simple, but it’s not easy. You’ll need to genuinely forgive them for what they did to you.”

“Not easy?” remarked the specter. “I’d say that’s next to impossible.”

The witcher nodded. “I understand. You just have to ask yourself what’s more important – hanging on to the anger and bitterness…or being free.”

“You don’t understand. They do not deserve my forgiveness.” 

“With all due respect, Your Highness,” said Geralt. “No one deserves forgiveness. It’s not something that can be earned. Judgment is earned. Judgment is deserved. Forgiveness can only be freely given. In truth, forgiveness is not even really about them. It’s about you.”

Aerensoska stared at the witcher, taking in his words. She then looked at the six statues behind him for a long time. Evie and Geralt gazed at her, then at each other, and back to her, again. Eventually, she glided down the steps and along the middle of the hall until she was standing in front of her former council of mages. She slowly spun in a circle looking at each one. 

“I do not excuse your actions. But…I think a thousand years is long enough for all of us to be condemned here.” She nodded her head. “May you be free to go wherever the God of the Aen Seidhe deems appropriate. I will trust in his choosing. We have seen his just wrath, and a part of me wishes that you would experience even more of it.” Then, the queen sighed. “However, after a millennium of reflecting on my own violent, heinous actions since coming into this world, I see that I am no better than any of you. Therefore, I release you. You are forgiven, and may he show mercy to us all.”

Suddenly, the statues began to glow with a bright, red light that lit up the entire hall. Both Geralt and Evie shielded their eyes. After a few seconds, the glow diminished. They looked to see that the statues were still there, but the living, red eyes were no longer present. In the middle of the hall, standing where Aerensoska had been was an enormous Golden Dragon apparition, shimmering in yellow.

The dragon took a step towards Geralt and Evie and then lowered her massive head to be closer to them. She then laughed, which sounded very strange coming from a dragon’s throat.

“It worked. It actually worked.” She laughed again. “Who would have ever thought? I was trapped here all this time in a prison of my own making. My freedom was within my grasp the entire time. All I had to do was forgive. Thank you, little one. Thank you, witcher. If you still seek the exiled Aen Seidhe, then I recommend traveling due west towards the Duilichinn Pass in the Tir Torchair Mountains. That’s the name that the Aen Seidhe called the pass that we used to both invade the West and when returning home. It’s logical that they took it as well on their return to their homeland.”

“Thank you for that information, your Highness,” said Geralt.

“No, Geralt, I thank the two of you. And there’s no need for formalities. I am no longer a queen. I am simply Aerensoska. May you find the peace that you’re looking for,” the Golden Dragon said, an instant before vanishing away. 

High above in the darkness, perched on the edge of a pillar, was a brownish-gray owl who had heard and seen everything.


	32. Chapter 32

Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  
Chapter 20

_Korath Desert_

“Where’s Barcain?” asked Lydial after she woke up from her late-afternoon nap. She, Evie, and Geralt were in their tent, protected from the still-blazing sun.

“Where do you think?” replied Evie.

Lydial shook her head. “Same time every day. I swear, his bowel movements are as regular as the sunrise.”

Evie smiled. “I’m just thankful he rides off over the next hill.” 

“Yeah,” said Geralt. “I’m thankful you all do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Mine smells like roses,” she said with a straight face. 

“Super sensitive smelling, remember?” the witcher said, pointing to his nose.

“All right, can we change the subject, please?” Evie asked, her face turning red.

“That actually sounds good,” said Geralt, “because I’ve got a question that’s been on my mind since yesterday, and that is – what’s next?”

“What do you mean?” asked Lydial.

“What I mean is that we found neither the Sword nor any more Essean texts at Gearrlon, and we have no more clues regarding either. I’m all for continuing on to the Duilichinn Pass because it’s the quickest way back to the Continent, but unless you two have some information that I don’t, then after we get west of the Tir Torchair Mountains, the trail is dead and cold, right? Didn’t you both say that there’s virtually nothing written down anywhere with regards to the Aen Seidhe’s return from exile?” 

Both Evie and Lydial nodded.

“Right,” said Geralt. “Which means that this adventure is over.”

“But what about Emhyr?” asked Evie. “We can’t let him get the Sword.”

“Evie, I’m pretty sure he’ll never lay his hands on it. If you – the best historian on the Continent – can’t find it, then no one can. So, how about we go home?”

A very large smile came to Evie’s face. “To Corvo Bianco?” 

“If that’s what you want,” replied the witcher with a small smile of his own. “If that’s where you want our home to be. My home is with you, wherever.”

“What about Lydial and Barcain?”

“They’re more than welcome. We need more grape pickers,” he said with a grin. Then, he looked at Lydial. “Seriously, though – you’re welcome to come live there with us. In fact, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“Thank you, Geralt. That’s a gracious offer,” said the elf. “And I’ll probably accept, but, first, I would like to go back to Dol Blathanna. I’m very curious to see how many new Aen Seidhe babies have been born in the last several months.” 

“Oh, yeah,” said Evie. “That totally slipped my mind.” 

She then looked Geralt in the eye. 

“Well, even if we weren’t able to destroy the Sword, this wasn’t a complete waste, right? At least some good came out of this whole mess.”

The witcher nodded his head. 

“Evie, a lot of good has happened since I first met you.” 

oOo

_Santoh, Gemmera_

Fringilla had her eyes open in the dark, staring at the ceiling above, with Malek next to her fast asleep. She was feverishly debating what she should do. In the last four weeks, she’d become more and more frustrated with the man because, ever since Novigrad, he’d become increasingly closed off. And in the last four days – since leaving Nilfgaard’s capital – it had just gotten worse. Before, he’d at least share a bit with her with regards to what the mission’s objective was, but now, he no longer told her anything. As mistrustful as he seemed to be of her, she was honestly surprised that he’d even let her come along in the first place. 

But it was more than simply his distrust of her that had her on edge. He was also acting quite suspiciously. Each day, for the last four days, he’d halt his men around the same time of the afternoon. While he allowed them to rest and water their horses, he’d ride off a distance and set up his megascope. Two days ago, after using the megascope, he’d returned and informed his men – and her – that they’d be heading in a new direction. In the last forty-eight hours, their path had veered more to the northeast towards the Imlebar River that came down out of the Tir Torchair Mountains, bisected the duchy of Gemmera and ran westward toward the Great Sea. She wondered just who he’d been talking to via the megascope, but, of course, he didn’t say a word. 

More so, in the last couple of weeks, she’d also caught him staring at a parchment that he kept in the front, inner pocket of his gambeson. She knew that he thought he was being discreet and that no one had seen him, but she had. In their first few months together, she’d never seen him pull this parchment out once. Now, he seemed to be doing it at least once a day whenever he thought he was unobserved. She knew better than to even ask him about it, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t curious. And that was the cause of the debate now going on in her mind. 

She wanted desperately to slip out of bed and rifle through his clothes to look at the parchment, but she didn’t know how long it’d be until his nightmares would start and, then, wake him up. Should she try now, before the nightmares, or wait until after they were over? She knew that sometimes he never went back to sleep after the nightmares came. Therefore, she probably needed to risk it now. 

She suddenly realized that it was too late. Malek was moaning and mumbling next to her, meaning his nightmares had begun. A couple of minutes later, she heard him wake from his dream, breathing hard, and for once, she didn’t try to comfort him. She just feigned that she was still asleep. Eventually, she felt him rise from the bed and splash some water on his face from the nearby basin. She unconsciously held her breath when, after hearing him put on his trousers and boots, he left their room in the small inn where they’d stopped earlier in the evening. She didn’t know where he was going, but she didn’t care. This was her chance.

After hearing the door of the room shut, she got out of bed and rushed over to Malek’s gambeson that was draped over the back of a nearby chair. She reached into the front pocket and felt the parchment on her fingertips. She quickly looked over her shoulder at the door before pulling it out and carefully unfolding it. While holding the paper in her right hand, she cast a small flame with her left. The flame lit up the darkness in front of her, and she looked down to see a drawing of a woman that, to Fringilla’s surprise, looked just like Professor Evangeline VanderBosch.

“What in the world,” thought Fringilla. This wasn’t one of the wanted posters of the history professor. This was much older. In fact, it looked to be many years old. And there was no writing on the front. Why would Malek have this? She was about to turn the parchment over to see if there was anything written on the back when she heard a noise behind her. 

“You’re losing your touch, Fringilla. Pretty sloppy spy-craft. You should’ve rummaged through my clothes earlier when I was taking a bath,” said Malek, now standing in front of the room’s closed door. “Just exactly what are you looking for?”

“This,” she said, holding up the parchment. In a flash, she’d decided to turn the situation back on him, to put him on the defensive. 

“This is what I’m searching for. And now I’ll ask you a question. This looks like a picture of the history professor, but it’s clearly not recent. Just who is this woman? What is she to you, Malek?”

“That’s not Evangeline…and please be careful with it.”

“Evangeline? Don’t you mean Professor VanderBosch?”

“No. I call her Evangeline. She’s…my niece,” said Malek. “And that’s not her in the picture. It’s her mother.”

Fringilla narrowed her eyes at Malek. “Her mother?”

Malek nodded. “Yes, her dead mother. So, now that you know I’m personally connected to this, what do you plan to do?”

“I don’t…I’m not going to do anything. I just wanted to know what you’ve been keeping a secret for weeks now.”

“That right? Not going to portal back to dear, cousin Donato and tell him all you know?”

“I…no, of course not.”

“Fringilla, you should know by now, I have spies everywhere. There’s little that I don’t know – especially in that snake’s den that is the capital.”

“So…I visit my cousin from time to time. So what? We’re family. I’ve never hidden that fact, unlike you with the history professor.”

“Uh huh. He still promising you the throne of Toussaint for spying on me and the Emperor? Please tell me that you don’t actually believe him.”

“How do you…”

“You know, I was hoping that I was wrong,” Malek said. To Fringilla’s ears, he sounded almost sad. “Hoping that for once I was wrong about sorceresses…wrong about people, in general.” Then, he gave a small laugh, but there was absolutely no mirth in it. “Hoping that you had some kind of genuine affection for me. That maybe after this was over, we could take a trip together, just the two of us. I don’t think I’ve had a real holiday in fifteen years.”

Fringilla was shocked. This was not the same man that she’d met many months ago. She’d obviously known that she and Malek were sexually compatible, but she never would have even imagined that he might want something more. She wasn’t sure what to think about that, but then she remembered - she’d sworn that she’d never let her guard down again. 

“You’re not wrong, Malek,” she said tenderly. “I do…have affection for you. Yes, I was looking through your things, but not to tell Donato or anyone else what I’d found. I just wanted to know more about you because you never tell me anything. I’ve been helping you chase this historian for months, and I didn’t even know she was related to you. Is this why you’re still chasing her, because she’s your niece? It can’t be because you’re still loyal to Emhyr, right?”

She carefully put the picture down and approached Malek. She reached up and touched his chest. “Let me in, Malek. Please. I do care for you. Please believe me.”

He caressed her face.

“Are those the same words you used on the witcher all those years ago, back in Toussaint?”

She reached up as high as she could and slapped him. “You bastard.”

“You were sent to spy on him, too, weren’t you?”

She tried to slap him again, but he easily caught her slender wrist in his huge hand.

“Just go away, Fringilla. Do us both a favor and just…go back to Donato. You’ll make a fine duchess.” 

oOo

“Any luck?” asked Philippa after her brother walked into their room and plopped down on a nearby chair.

“I must have asked every hayseed in this bumpkin town about Duilichinn Pass,” he answered. “Nobody’s heard of it.”

The two of them had arrived via portal in the little town of Santoh later in the same day that Malek and his men had ridden out. 

“There was one old man who said he’d ventured high up in the mountains one time in his youth. Claimed that there was a lake somewhere up there in the clouds. Said that’s where the Imlebar River originates. Also, said that it looked like there might’ve been a trail that continued upward at one point, but that it looked like rockslides had closed it off centuries before. So…”

“So, that means I’ll have to continue flying over them in the desert each evening until we can figure out exactly where they’re going.”

“That or fly over the mountains. Try to find that lake. Maybe that’ll lead us to the pass,” said Oran. “Either way, I need a meal and a soft bed. Wake me when you get back.”

oOo 

“There they are,” said the witcher. “The Tir Torchair Mountains.”

“Finally,” said Barcain.

It had been four days since the four Westerners had left Gearrlon for the Duilichinn Pass. They now stood on a high, sandy dune in the Korath Desert looking westward. Though the sun had not yet risen, the sky was a lighter shade of blue, pink, and purple in the east. The mountain range still looked to be far away, like it might take the rest of the morning before they’d reach its base. 

“You know, growing up in Vicovaro, the ‘Tears’ were a constant presence, but I’ve never seen them from this side,” said Evie. “It’s a little strange. Like seeing a school age boyfriend twenty years later. You can still recognize him, but he’s different, too.”

“You’re weird, Angel,” said Barcain.

Evie stuck out her tongue at her brother.

“Real mature,” he replied.

Several hours later, they came over a rise, and down below them, they spotted a small oasis. They urged their camels forward, but when they got to within about fifty yards, their mounts starting acting jittery. 

“What is going on?” asked Lydial, trying to calm her camel. 

“Hold on,” said the witcher, dismounting. “I’m going to do a little recon. I’ll be right back.”

The three of them watched the witcher walk off towards the oasis. When he got half-way there, he suddenly stopped and pulled his silver sword. He stood there for over a minute, not moving. Finally, he began moving back towards them, all the while still facing the oasis. After he traveled backwards for about ten yards, he turned and ran back to where they were waiting. 

“We need to thank these smelly beasts,” said Geralt, referring to the camels. “I don’t know exactly what’s in that pool of water, but I definitely heard something, and it didn’t sound good. I suggest we steer clear. We don’t need the water that badly. We still have enough to last us for a few days more.”

Two hours later, they came to the base of the mountains. They split up and rode off in opposite directions. Eventually, Barcain and Lydial spotted what looked to be an old trail that made its way upward. After fetching Geralt and Evie, the four of them started the long, slow climb towards the crest, with Geralt in the lead and Barcain bringing up the rear.

Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, the heat, while still uncomfortable, was no longer oppressive now that they were out of the desert and into higher elevations. That was the good news. The bad news was that they eventually had to dismount as the camels were not used to walking in that particular type of steep, rocky terrain. None of them wanted to be riding atop one of the tall animals if it slipped and fell. 

oOo

High above, at the very top of the mountain’s summit, a man suddenly appeared. He was bald and wore a brownish, mustard yellow top with blue trousers. He gazed far down the eastern slope of the mountain to a group leading their camels. From where he sat, they looked like ants. He then turned and peered down the western slope. He saw another group ascending that side of the mountain. A small smile came to his face, and he softly clapped his hands together three times. He immediately disappeared, and, suddenly, the darkest of clouds formed over the mountain. A moment later, a flash of lightning split the sky and torrents of rain began pouring down. 

oOo

It was late afternoon, and the rain still fell. The four of them were completely soaked when Geralt came to a fork in the trail. The trail to his right seemed to continue up towards the mountain peak while the one to his left led to a small, flat clearing – a clearing located right in front of a cave entrance. 

The witcher stopped and turned to face the others.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Keep going up or take shelter in that cave?”

Their votes were unanimous.

Geralt led them towards the cave, and once they walked through the entrance and lit a torch, Evie let out a gasp.

“Look at the size of this place,” she exclaimed, holding the torch out in front of her. “This is the biggest cavern I’ve ever seen.”

“I can’t see where it ends,” said Lydial. “Do you think it goes all the way to the other side of the mountain?”

“Don’t know,” said the witcher. “Never been on this mountain before.”

“If so, it could save us several hours of hiking,” said Barcain. “It’d take us another half-day to finally make it over and down the pass.”

“What do you think, Geralt?” asked Evie. “You’ve been in more caves and caverns than all of us combined. Should we see if it goes through to the other side?”

Suddenly, the sky outside lit up with a flash and a loud clap of thunder echoed into the cavern, startling the humans and camels alike. Then, a moment later, they heard rumbling coming from above them. The noise lasted for at least half a minute. 

“Damn, that lightning strike sounded close,” said Barcain as Geralt started to exit the cave.

“Where are you going?” asked Evie.

“That sounded like a rock slide,” he replied. 

Fifteen minutes later, the witcher returned, his wet hair hanging down near his eyes. 

“Looks like the decision has been made for us,” he said. “About a quarter mile up, a rock slide has completely blocked the trail. It’d probably take us a day to clear it enough to get through.”

“The cavern it is, then,” said Barcain.

oOo

“Oh, my,” said Evie. “Look at this.”

The four of them had been walking deeper into the cavern for a quarter of an hour when the light from Evie’s torch had reflected off something metallic in some rocks off to the right of their pathway. Being the historian that she was, she had ventured over to investigate. 

“It’s part of a skeleton with a sword and armor,” she said breathlessly. “Geralt, have you ever seen a sword like this?”

The witcher walked over and peered down. His eyes scanned over everything, and then he nodded.

“Aen Seidhe” he said.

She looked up with excitement in her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“The shape of the skull is more elven than human,” he answered, “but even if I’m wrong about that, the sword is definitely in the Aen Seidhe style. See how the blade has that unique curvature?”

“Then, this has got to be one of the Aen Seidhe who was returning from Gearrlon,” exclaimed Evie.

“Really?” asked Barcain. “That happened almost a thousand years ago. Wouldn’t the bones have totally disintegrated by now?”

Evie shook her head. “Not necessarily. This cavern is right next to the desert – very warm and arid. In these conditions, bones could easily last a thousand years or more.”

“She’s right,” said Geralt.

“So, do you know what this means?” Evie asked.

“Yes,” answered Lydial. “That we’re on the right track.”

“Maybe there’s something down here that will tell us where to go next,” Evie said with a smile. “I’ll search his body.”

oOo

“Come on!” shouted Malek to his men behind him. “I see a cave up ahead. We’ll head there till this storm passes.”

The seven soldiers urged their horses up the western slope of the mountain and towards the refuge from the storm.

oOo

Geralt and the others came around a slight bend within the cave, and even though it was overcast and stormy outside, they could still see natural light coming into the cavern from somewhere up ahead. 

“The exit must be close!” said Lydial. 

“Damn it,” said Evie quietly.

“What is it?” asked Lydial.

“There was nothing down here.” 

The group had found the skeletal remains of two more Aen Seidhe, but neither had held any kind of documents or evidence that could serve as clues for the foursome. 

“Looks like our adventure really is over,” the historian said.

They kept moving slowly forward – leading their camels by the reins - but as they continued on toward the dim light that they assumed was coming in through the cavern’s exit, Evie noticed that the cavern floor was darker up ahead. 

“Whoa. Hold up,” said the witcher, as he suddenly stopped walking and raised his closed hand.

Evie walked up next to him and looked straight down into total darkness. They were standing next to an abyss. Evie looked across and could tell that it was about fifty feet to the other side, but when she looked back down, she couldn’t see the bottom of the abyss even with a torch in her hand. 

“Can you see how far down it goes?” she asked Geralt.

“Yeah, not that far. Maybe forty feet. But long enough of a drop that it’d probably kill you, though. Or, at least, shatter a lot of bones.”

“Can you see anything down there?”

“Give me your torch.”

The witcher laid down flat on his belly, with his head hanging over the edge of the abyss. He reached down with the torch as far as he could. 

“I’m not sure, but I think I see at least two other sets of armor and skeletal remains.”

He heard his wife suck in her breath. He rolled over onto his side and looked up at her. He could see her staring at him with hopeful eyes while slightly biting her lower lip. He knew that look.

“You want me to go down there, don’t you?”

“Only if you think it’s safe.” 

oOo

On the eastern slope of the mountain, a portal opened on the clearing just in front of the cavern’s entrance. Out stepped Philippa and Oran.

“They entered just a few minutes ago,” said the sorceress. “Let’s hurry. If there is anything in there worth finding, I want to be there when they discover it.”

She immediately changed into her owl form while her brother cast his spell and turned invisible.

oOo

After retrieving the rope from his saddlebags, the witcher secured one end to a nearby rock outcropping and then threw the loose end over the precipice. While Geralt was doing that, the others had noticed, about twenty feet away, a naturally-made rock bridge that spanned the abyss, but no one was willing to cross it just yet. No one knew if it would support their weight, much less that of their camels. They decided to let the witcher inspect and test the stability of its columns from down below before they risked it. 

The witcher held onto the rope with both hands – one in front of him and the other behind him next to his hip - while leaning back over the ledge. He looked at his wife one last time before jumping backwards and disappearing into the darkness below. 

Hidden in the shadows of the cavern, a pair of dark eyes was watching the foursome with interest. The man had been following them since they’d entered the cave, and as he watched the witcher repel into the abyss, he smiled. His plan was going perfectly, just like clockwork.

oOo

“Do you hear that?” asked Timataal. He and the rest had just brought themselves and their horses in from the storm. 

“Yeah,” answered Malek. “It sounded like voices coming from deeper in the cavern.”

“It could be them.”

“Only one way to find out.” 

Five minutes later, Malek and his men had lit torches in hand and began walking deeper into the cave.

oOo

The witcher repelled down the side of the abyss’ wall, and as soon as his feet landed softly on the rocky ground below, he unsheathed his silver sword. He slowly turned his body in a circle, using his senses to detect any danger. He didn’t hear or smell anything that would cause concern, but he did see, at the far end of the abyss, a large hole – at least ten feet high and ten feet wide – in the side of a wall that led to who knows where. He didn’t know what – if anything – was in there, but he didn’t figure it would be cute and cuddly.

Geralt walked over to the first skeleton and quickly searched around it but didn’t find anything of note. He looked over at the second skeleton and immediately noticed something different about it. Unlike the first, which was lying flat on the ground, this skeleton seemed to be sitting up, with its back against the wall of the abyss. Geralt made some quick assumptions and concluded that, while the first Aen Seidhe had probably fallen from above and died where he or she landed, the second elf had probably survived its fall. The witcher seriously doubted that an elf would fall and land perfectly in a seated, up-right position. 

The witcher’s imagination started to run a bit. He wondered what must have gone through this Aen Seidhe’s mind as he or she sat down there in the darkness, especially when they realized that no one was coming to rescue them. When it finally dawned on them that the abyss would be their tomb. He wondered if this elf had believed in Essea and had called out to him in his final moments. As Geralt knelt next to the skeleton, those thoughts immediately drifted away when he caught sight of a large satchel laying at its side. 

The White Wolf lifted his head and carefully looked around the bottom of the abyss one more time. Not sensing any danger, he sheathed his sword and then reached forward and gently opened the thick satchel. Inside, he saw numerous cylindrically-shaped objects. He grabbed one and slowly pulled it out of the satchel. The smooth cylinder was about eighteen inches long, roughly the thickness of his forearm, and made of some type of hard substance. He saw that one end of the cylinder had a cap or stopper. He gently removed the end of the cylinder, snapped his fingers to create a small Igni flame, and then peered inside the container. What he saw made him exhale deeply. 

After extinguishing the small flame, he looked above him and called out, “Evie, how much do you love me?”

“With all my heart. Why?”

“Because you’re about to love me even more. I found…let’s see…eleven thick scrolls on this Aen Seidhe.” 

“Oh my gosh.” 

“Toss down your satchel. This one down here is about to fall to pieces.” 

“No way. I’m coming down,” the historian answered. “I need to see everything down there.”

Almost immediately, Geralt saw his wife appear over the edge of the abyss. She wrapped the rope around one of her legs and used both her hands and her feet to slowly and carefully climb her way down. A minute later, Evie hurried over to Geralt. She was a little out of breath and her eyes were wide with excitement. When Geralt handed the cylinder over to her, he noticed that her hands were trembling. 

“This is so amazing,” she said, looking at her husband. “Do you realize what we may have just found?”

She looked back down at the cylinder. 

“Geralt, can you give me a little light, please?”

After he signed a small flame, Evie gently pulled the scroll from the cylinder and then unfurled it. Her eyes methodically moved over the first page, and then she looked up with a smile. 

“This is it, Geralt. This is it,” she said breathlessly. “We have just discovered the most important writings in the history of…history.”

The witcher smiled back at his wife. “Congratulations, baby. I’m happy for you.”

Evie then gazed into her husband’s face. “You know what the best part is?”

“What’s that?”

“I got to do all of this with the love of my life.”

Geralt smiled. “Yeah, it’ll be a helluva story to tell our kids.”

Evie laughed and then looked upward. 

“Nain, we did it. It’s the Essean texts.”

Less than a minute later, they’d just finished transferring all the cylinders into Evie’s satchel when, suddenly, the witcher heard noises coming from the large hole at the end of the abyss. 

“Hurry, Evie, we’ve got company!” he yelled as he pulled her over to the rope. He put the satchel over her head and then quickly wrapped the rope under her arms and tied off the end. 

He then yelled upward towards Lydial and Barcain, “Pull her up! Now!”

The witcher didn’t even bother to watch his wife climbing/being pulled up the side. He immediately turned toward the unmistakable sound of mandibles clicking together. He unsheathed his silver blade, cast a Quen, and reached up to his bandolier. As soon as he saw the Aculeomorphs appear out of the darkness, he tossed the Dancing Star in their direction. The bomb exploded, catching both of the giant scorpions on fire. He moved in closer to brandish his sword, when he noticed two more giant scorpions coming up behind the first two.

Evie heard the explosion below her and then could see the dark cavern light up with flames. She didn’t turn around to look though. She just kept climbing as fast as her trembling arms could take her. She looked up to see Barcain at the edge of the precipice, pulling the rope with all his might. As she finally got to the top, Lydial grabbed her by the hand and pulled her safely onto hard ground, but she didn’t stop to rest. She immediately untied the rope from around her and tossed it back down into the abyss. 

“Geralt,” she screamed. “The rope is down!”   
  
She was on her belly, her head over the edge, trying to get a glimpse her husband, but she was having trouble seeing. Shadows from the flames were dancing everywhere along the abyss’ walls. The witcher would only appear for a moment, spinning through the air, the flames reflecting off of his silver sword, before he’d quickly be swallowed by the darkness again. She couldn’t tell what was happening below. 

The witcher had killed three of the Aculeomorphs, but two more were coming his way. 

“To hell with this,” he thought. “I’ll take the high ground.”

He quickly ran over to the rope and flew up the side of the forty-foot wall. After getting to the top, he immediately got to his feet and was about to toss more bombs down into the abyss when he saw the looks on both Evie and Lydial’s face. It was an expression of shock and fear, and they were staring across the abyss to the other side. He turned around to see Malek and six other men poised on the other side of the chasm, fifty feet away, with torches in one hand and weapons in the other.

They were all just standing there, staring at each other in silence when the witcher heard clicking sounds getting closer.

“Get back!” he yelled. “They’re climbing the walls!”

Suddenly, large pinchers appeared over the edge of the abyss, followed by the rest of the giant scorpions – one on the witcher’s side and one on Malek’s. Before any of the Nilfgaardians could even make a move, one was impaled through his gut by the spear-like tail of the Aculeomorph. The giant insect lifted the screaming man into the air and brought him towards its mouth, where it quickly and easily bit off his head and then flung the rest of his body aside. The giant scorpion then turned and began skittering towards the other six men.

oOo

The other Aculeomorph reached the top of the abyss and turned towards Barcain. In an instant, the witcher saw that it was about to impale his brother-in-law with its tail, and he immediately cast an Aard at Barcain, knocking the man off his feet and backward a good twenty feet. The scorpion slashed its tail - with its sharp stinger - forward but found nothing but air. The monster-slayer quickly cast an Igni stream at the creature as Evie and Lydial fled to the other side of the cavern towards where Barcain was just getting back to his feet. 

oOo

Malek watched as the giant scorpion snatched up one of his men in its pinchers and cut the screaming man’s body in half. He drew his weapon from his side, aimed it at the giant scorpion’s head, and slammed the plunger forward. Shrapnel fired out of the weapon’s end and into the creature’s body, and Malek saw blood – or some kind of fluid – pour from the monster’s head, but it wasn’t dead. Not even close. 

But the injury did get its attention, and it turned toward Malek. The big man frantically twisted the cylinder in his weapon as the creature rushed towards him. He saw it impale another one of his men with its tail, but it didn’t even bother to stop. It was coming for him. Malek raised his weapon and fired again, the blast reverberating off the cavern’s walls. More blood oozed from the creature, but it still kept coming. He knew he didn’t have time for another shot with his weapon. He dropped it to the ground and pulled his sword just as the giant scorpion raised both its pinchers high in the air above him. He glanced up to see the pinchers open wide and coming in his direction.

oOo

Hidden behind some rocks on the witcher’s side of the abyss was owl-Philippa, watching the utter chaos below her. 

“Let’s add to it, shall we?” she thought to herself gleefully. 

She flew down to the cavern floor, changed into her human form, and then began chanting an intricate spell. Thirty seconds later, a ten-foot tall, earth elemental appeared in the middle of the cavern. Philippa immediately changed back into her owl form and flew into the air.

oOo

Malek raised his sword into a defensive position, not sure what he was going to do if the giant scorpion attacked with both pinchers when he suddenly heard a yell coming from behind the creature. He looked up to see Timataal jump onto the monster’s relatively flat back. The burly man fell to his knees, lifted his sword high above his head in both hands, and lunged forward towards the monster’s head. As he fell, he drove his blade through the Aculeomorph’s brain, killing it instantaneously. As the creature’s legs collapsed from underneath it, and its body slammed to the ground, Timataal fell off its back and rolled towards Malek’s feet. 

Malek looked down at his best friend, nodded his head, and exhaled deeply. 

“Nice one,” he said as he reached down and offered the barrel-chested man a hand up.

  
  
oOo

The witcher had just cut off one of the giant scorpion’s pinchers and was blasting it with a stream of fire, when something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head just slightly to see an owl fly down from the darkness towards Evie. He knew that owl. He immediately stopped casting his Igni Sign and ran towards his wife. 

oOo

Malek had picked up his weapon and was about the cross the stone bridge to the other side of the abyss when he saw Philippa Eilhart materialize a few feet from Evangeline. The sight of that insane woman – especially so close to his own flesh and blood – caused anger to flood through his mind. He raised his weapon and looked down the sights at the sorceress from Montecalvo. He gritted his teeth and slammed his left palm forward and into the firing mechanism. A blast exploded forth from the chamber’s end, and as the smoke cleared, Malek lifted his eyes over the sights of the weapon to see just what damage that he’d done. 

His eyes widened in shock and his mouth dropped open. He felt as if he’d just been punched in the gut. This wasn’t right. How had this happened? He’d been aiming at Eilhart. He’d had the witch in his sights. He knew that he had. So, why was his weapon now pointed in Evangeline’s direction?

oOo

Geralt was halfway to his wife when he saw Malek fire his weapon from across the abyss, and then he heard Evie scream out in pain and fall to the ground. Suddenly, Philippa was there, crouching over Evie, trying to take the satchel from her shoulder. The witcher cast a powerful Aard at the witch, blowing her across the cavern, her body slamming hard into a rock wall. 

Time seemed to stand still as the witcher stood over Evie’s body, staring across the chasm and into Malek’s eyes. He could sense the rage overtake him, and he suddenly felt the urge to run across the stone bridge and strike the bastard down. He took two steps in Malek’s direction when, somehow, through all the chaos around him, he heard the wolf-head medallion on Evie’s chest suddenly vibrate. He immediately turned and then felt a knife pierce his left side and slide past his lower ribs. 

With a quickness that only he possessed, the witcher snapped his right hand across his body and grasped the invisible arm that held the knife, keeping it from ripping upward and doing more damage. Though he couldn’t see his attacker, he could hear the man grunt next to him so the monster-slayer raised his left arm and began slamming his elbow backwards towards the man’s head as violently as he possibly could. He kept at it over and over, hearing bone and cartilage snapping. Still grasping tightly onto the arm that had been holding the knife, the witcher jerked the invisible body in front of him and, with everything he had, cast the most intense Igni flame that he could. The invisible man caught fire, and his screams echoed throughout the cavern as his skin began to melt off his face. 

The witcher noticed movement to his left and looked up to see Philippa Eilhart standing again and about to cast a spell in his direction. As she threw her arms forward to propel the spell at the witcher, he quickly pivoted his body, using the invisible man as shield. The sorceress’ powerful spell impacted Oran’s body, and it exploded into pieces, blood and small bits of flesh saturating the air. 

Philippa’s eyes went wide, and then, through the crimson mist walked the witcher, soaked red with blood. To her, he looked like a demon stalking forth from the bowels of hell. She began to cast another spell, but she wasn’t fast enough. The Butcher of Blaviken brought both hands forward, and with a guttural yell, he blasted the witch with two bolts of lightning. She fell to the ground, and as he continued slowly walking towards her, he maintained the Sign, relishing her screams as the lightning flowed through her body. So focused was the witcher on killing the witch that he didn’t notice a giant, earth elemental charging his way. The monster-slayer turned his head at the last second, right before the magical creature knocked him through the air and over the edge of the abyss.

oOo

Barcain watched Geralt fight with some invisible opponent, and then when he saw the witcher turn his focus towards the witch, he ran over to Evie and took the satchel from around her shoulder. He then grabbed Lydial roughly by the arm and began dragging her towards the stone bridge that spanned the abyss. 

Lydial began protesting. 

“No, we’ve got to help them.”

Barcain slapped his grandmother across the face as hard as he could.

“Let’s go, Nain! It’s too late for them!”

He continued to push her across the bridge in front of him, and as they approached the other side, he saw Malek just stepping onto the bridge, coming their way. Barcain reached up and grabbed two bombs off of Lydial’s bandolier. He then turned and tossed them toward the other end of the stone path. When the bombs exploded, the rock bridge cracked and then slowly began to crumble and fall. 

Barcain pushed Lydial onward and past Malek, who was now stopped, staring across the abyss at Evie’s prone figure.   
  
It was at that moment that Malek’s eyes shifted - watching the witcher’s body cart-wheeling through the air and falling into the abyss. He looked across the chasm to see Philippa slowly getting to her knees. He raised his weapon and fired. This time, he hit his intended target, and the sorceress fell back down to the cavern floor. 

oOo

Geralt was falling through the air, but with his incredible body awareness, he was able to twist himself into a position to ensure he wouldn’t land on his head, and then he braced himself for a hard impact. He landed, and the breath was immediately knocked out of him, but he quickly assessed his body and didn’t feel any fractures. He glanced down and saw that he’d fortunately landed on top of one of the Aculeomorph corpses. It had cushioned his fall just enough that he hadn’t broken any bones. He pressed his hand to his side, and when he pulled it back, he saw blood. He wasn’t sure how serious the wound was, but he didn’t have time to figure it out now. He scrambled to his feet, stumbled back over to the rope that was still hanging down into the abyss, and then he began to climb.

When Geralt got to the top, he saw the earth elemental standing at the edge of the abyss twenty feet away. It was facing the others on the far side of the chasm, roaring, and throwing small, conjured boulders in their direction. He glanced at his wife still lying on the cavern floor. He wanted to go to her, but he knew that he had to finish off the elemental first. He got to his feet, unsheathed his sword, and staggered toward the monster. He reached up to his bandolier and realized he had no more bombs left. 

“Swell.”

The magical construct turned, saw an enemy, let out another loud roar, and charged the witcher. Geralt dodged the monster and sliced his blade into it as it passed. This went on three more times – him dodging and cutting into the magical creature - before the witcher came out of a roll and found himself standing in front of the cavern’s side wall. He knew that he needed to end this soon. He could tell he was losing blood from his side, and, more importantly, he had to check on Evie. The monster charged again, and the witcher let loose with the most powerful Blyx Sign he could muster. The lightning bolt impacted the monster right in the chest from ten feet away. The electrical charge destroyed the monster’s magical core, but the two-ton construct’s momentum couldn’t be stopped. It continued forward, toward the witcher, who easily dodged to his right to avoid its impact. The giant monster crashed into the cavern wall, causing a large crack in the stone – a large crack running upwards. Geralt heard the noise and quickly looked up to see that the ceiling of the cavern above him was about to give way. He immediately dove head-first for safety but, while in mid-air, he was slammed to the ground and instantly felt the most intense pain shooting through his leg.   
  
The witcher couldn’t see much since dust and dirt had kicked up around him, but he could hear yelling echoing throughout the cavern. Then, he realized that the yelling was coming from him. As the dust cleared, he looked down and saw that his lower right leg had been completely crushed by an enormous slab of stone that had fallen from the cavern ceiling. In fact, his leg wasn’t just crushed. It was pulverized. He couldn’t see his foot or lower calf at all, for there wasn’t even a quarter inch of space between the slab and the cavern’s rock floor. 

Geralt immediately turned his head and threw up – the pain so severe that it made his stomach lurch. Not even bothering to wipe the spittle from his chin, he reached for the small pouch on his belt, retrieved a Swallow potion, and downed it. He then tried to pull his leg out from under the rock, but it wouldn’t budge, and the pain almost made him pass out. The witcher growled, gritted his teeth and pressed both hands to his temples, trying to fight off the blackness that was starting to encroach on his vision. He had to stay conscious, he told himself. For Evie. He blinked his eyes several times, and then he raised his torso up and unsheathed the knife from his thigh. He jabbed at both the stone slab and the rock floor with the tip of the knife to test how hard or soft they were. His blade barely even scratched the surface. He realized it’d take him weeks to chisel enough of the rock away to be able to pull himself free.

Sweat pouring from his face, the witcher laid back down on the cavern floor and frantically tried to think of something – some way to free himself. It was then that he heard a voice calling from the other side of the abyss. 

“Sorry it had to end this way, Geralt. You’re actually not so bad – for a mutant,” said Barcain with a smile on his face. “But that’s life for you. I guess Uncle Malek and I will have to find the Sword ourselves. Oh, yeah, he and I have been working together this whole time. Bet you feel real stupid, huh? And thanks for letting little sis keep the working medallion. As soon as you told me that yours didn’t sense magic anymore, I knew I was free to contact Malek with my megascope again. Well, see you around.” Then he cocked his head to the side. “Actually, looks like I won’t.” 

He then grabbed Lydial by the arm. “Let’s go, Nain.”

“Barcain, what is wrong with you? How could you betray your own sister, your own family?” Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“Nain, I said ‘Let’s go.’ I will tie you up and drag you with us if I have to. But you are coming along. How you come along is your choice.”

She let herself be pulled away from the abyss, but she kept looking back over her shoulder at Geralt and Evie lying on the cavern floor. 

Everyone exited the cavern until only Malek was left. He was staring hard at Evie. The witcher heard him mumble something under his breath, but from that distance, he couldn’t discern the words. Then, he looked at Geralt, shook his head, and turned and left the cavern. 

The witcher twisted his body and craned his neck so that he could look at his wife. She was on her side, and her eyes were still open, looking right at him. Her right arm was stretched in his direction, as if she was reaching out to him. The front of her shirt was soaked with blood and her breathing was slow. 

Geralt saw her lips move. He couldn’t hear what she said, but he knew that she was saying his name. 

“Baby, listen to me, okay?” Geralt pleaded. “You gotta listen. The health potion, in the small pouch on your bandolier – you’ve got to take that, okay?” 

He saw her slowly blink her eyes, and she reached upward towards her chest, but it was as if she had no control over her arm or hand. Her fingers brushed against the pouch but never grabbed hold, and her arm fell back down to the ground. 

“Evie! Baby! You gotta hang on! Stay with me, Evie! Stay with me! You gotta get the health potion!”

The witcher turned back to the rock pinning his leg and pulled with all his might, letting out a mighty roar.

His yell echoed throughout the cavern, but his leg didn’t move an inch. 

He turned back towards his wife and reached out with his left arm as far as he could.

“Evie! You gotta take the health potion!”

His fingertips were less than a yard from his wife’s, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get any closer. He shifted his gaze from her outstretched hand towards her face, and he saw her lips move again and then she slowly closed her eyes. He noticed a tear run across the bridge of her nose and fall to the cavern floor. And then the witcher watched his wife breathe her last. 

“Evie, baby, no…you gotta stay with me! You gotta stay with me…you gotta stay with me.” 

The last was only said in a whisper as a look of resignation came to his face. He stopped struggling to free himself of the rock, and just lay on the cavern floor, staring at his wife.   
  
The witcher felt like the world had stopped. It was just him and Evie in that cavern, and nothing anywhere else mattered. 

“You can’t go, Evie,” he whispered. “What about all our plans? We were gonna watch a thousand sunsets. See the fields of White Orchard covered in virgin snow. Make a home…together.”

The witcher just lay there staring at his wife for another minute before he finally closed his eyes and dropped his head back onto the cavern floor.

“Evie,” he whispered.

He was, suddenly, torn from his thoughts by the sound of clicking mandibles. The sound was down in the abyss, but the witcher could tell it was getting closer. He once again raised up and looked at his leg. He put his left foot against the stone and tried with all his strength to push it off and pull himself free, but it was just too heavy. As the Aculeomorph continued its climb up the wall, the witcher knew he only had one real choice if he was going to keep Evie from being eaten. He quickly reached into his pouch, took out another Swallow and a Tawny Owl, and immediately downed them both. He unsheathed his steel sword from his back and placed the blade across his leg right next to the slab’s surface. He held the hilt in his right hand and the end of the blade in his left. He breathed deeply twice and then raised the sword two feet into the air. With a yell, he brought it down onto his shin and sliced right through the lower part of his leg. 

While his screams filled the cavern, he grabbed his right knee with his right hand and pulled his leg up towards his chest. He then cast the most powerful stream of Igni that he could at the stump of the leg, hoping to cauterize the wound. The pain was unbearable, the stench of his own burning flesh filled his nostrils, and his yells echoed in his ears, but he kept the Igni flames on the end of the stump until he could stand it no more. 

He then turned and immediately crawled in front of Evie’s body just as the giant Scorpion slowly climbed over the edge of the abyss. He immediately cast a Quen, and when the monster struck forward with its tail, the witcher swung his sword from his knees and sliced off its stinger. The creature let out a screech and backed up. This gave the monster-slayer the chance to cast a Blyx Sign, and lightning struck the Aculeomorph. As it fell to the ground, its muscles twitching, the witcher raised up onto his left foot, took two big hops forward and lunged at the monster’s head. The White Wolf let out a roar as he fell towards the monster’s open maw. 

oOo

Thunder cracked overhead, and the rain continued to fall. 

“The weather certainly fits the mood,” thought Timataal. 

Five rode their horses down the western slope of the Tir Torchair mountain. Four in silence while one – Barcain – prattled on about what clues the Essean texts might reveal about the Sword’s location. Timataal wanted to gut the asshole just to get him to shut up. Couldn’t he see that his kin were hurting? 

Timataal took a peek at his best friend’s face, still etched with anguish. While he knew Malek was grieving the loss of four of his men, he also knew that the giant of a man had someone else on his mind at the moment. Occasionally, he’d see Malek turn in the saddle and gaze back up towards the top of the mountain – towards the cavern. When Timataal looked back, it seemed that the clouds were even blacker and thicker up above, and the rain was pouring down in sheets. In fact, he didn’t think he could even see the summit anymore. It was covered in darkness. 

oOo

Geralt woke, lying across his wife’s body. The pain in his leg was fierce, as if every nerve was still on fire. He pushed himself off of Evie and sat on the cavern floor. The cavern itself was completely dark now so Geralt dilated his pupils as wide as possible. He looked down at his leg, and as gently as possible, he tried to pull the charred fabric of his trousers from his leg so that he could get a better look at the wound. However, most of the fabric was stuck to the skin so he just left it in place. It didn’t look to be bleeding, and he wanted to keep it that way. 

He looked down at his wife and then around him. There were corpses – of humans, giant scorpions, and an earth elemental - laying everywhere. At that moment, he really wanted to get his wife out of that cavern of death, but with the stone bridge across the abyss damaged, that meant there was only one way he could go. 

The witcher stared at his wife for a moment and clenched his jaw. He then laid down next to her and gently rolled her onto her side. With his right arm, he hugged her to his chest, and then he began crawling on his left side, using his arm and good leg to inch his way along. Her hair was right in his face, and he could easily detect her scent – just the faintest hint of vanilla. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, wanting to stop where he was and just hold her forever in that cavern. But he knew that he couldn’t let his grief overwhelm him. So, instead of his sadness, he began to focus on his anger, and as he moved along the cavern floor, dragging Evie with him, his fury grew with every inch that he crawled.

An hour later, Geralt crawled out of the cavern through the eastern exit, and he kept crawling until he got to the middle of the small, flat clearing that was directly in front of the cavern. He then slowly got to his knees. From where he knelt, he could look out eastward and see the Korath Desert stretching on for miles and miles. Lightning flashed across the sky several times, and peals of thunder shook the ground. The witcher, with his wife’s corpse at his knees, looked up into the storm – a storm that matched what he felt inside.

“Why!?!” he yelled upward. “Why? What was the point of any of this?”

The rain just continued to fall into the witcher’s face.

“Answer me!” His eyes scanned the night sky. “What do you want from me!?! I tried…I tried everything in my power to keep her safe! That’s what you told me to do…and I tried! Why didn’t you help us? Why? Was all this for nothing?”

The witcher stayed silent, just listening, and watching the clouds roll and tumble. Eventually, he lowered his head. His eyes drifted down to Evie. He shook his head and closed his eyes. 

“I tried,” he whispered, as his chin fell to his chest. “So, what do you want from me?”

But, still, the rain continued to fall. It fell on the witcher and washed the blood from his hair and face. Then, like the rain, the witcher fell, too. His body splashed down into the mud, and he lay on his back, next to his wife, just staring up into the black sky. 

He closed his eyes and whispered one more time, “Please…God…” 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d lain there when, suddenly, he thought he heard something in the wind – something like a whisper, though he couldn’t hear the words. He jerked his body up and opened his eyes. He looked around the clearing, but he didn’t see anyone there. But, then, far out into the distance – perhaps a mile or more out into the black desert night - he saw the tiniest speck of light. He stared at it for several minutes as it kept getting closer and closer. As it got nearer, he thought that it might be a sprite – he’d run across a few of those mystical little creatures in his time – but as it continued to approach, he quickly changed his mind. The little light finally stopped about two feet in front of him. 

He squinted his eyes and slightly shook his head. He’d never seen this before. It wasn’t a sprite or a will o’ the wisp. Nor was it even a common lightning bug. It was just a butterfly, though he didn’t know of any butterfly that emitted light. And how could the little bug actually fly in this storm? It should have been impossible. One drop of water on its delicate wings should have knocked it to the ground. The witcher didn’t know how it was possible, but there it was. He slowly reached his left hand out in front of him, and the butterfly landed on his finger. Geralt stared at the insect as it flapped its wings several times, and then it flew up and over Geralt’s head towards the cavern. The witcher turned around to look at it and noticed that it had stopped at the entrance. He looked down at his wife and then back at the butterfly. Then, he started crawling on his knees after it, and though a grimace of pain came to his face every time he moved his right leg, the witcher simply stared straight ahead, never taking his eyes off of the small light in front of him. 

Thirty minutes later, Geralt came to the abyss at the other end of the cavern and watched the butterfly descend into it. He found the rope that was still safely secured in place and lowered himself down to the floor of the chasm. Upon reaching the bottom, he saw that the insect was hovering in front of the skeletal remains where they’d earlier found the scrolls. 

“What is it?” he asked after crawling over to it.  
  
The glowing insect simply flapped its wings, hovering in place over the remains of the Aen Seidhe. Geralt looked down to the skeleton and then began to methodically search through the bones but found nothing. 

He looked up at the butterfly. 

“There’s nothing here.” 

Still, the little bug hovered in place. 

Geralt shook his head but then began to search the cavern floor around the skeleton. He held his breath as his fingers brushed against something small and smooth, causing a small tinkling noise against the hard stone. He grasped a short, thin cylinder in his hand, and as soon as he did, the little bug flew upwards. The witcher looked up just in time to see it disappear over the edge of the precipice. He then looked back down to the cylinder in his hand.

Though he could see – more or less - in the darkness of the abyss, the witcher decided he needed some more illumination. He cast an Igni at one of the dead Aculeomorph corpses until it caught on fire. He then looked at the cylinder in his hand. He pulled the two ends apart and saw that there was a small piece of parchment inside. He gently unfurled the paper and tilted it toward the flames so that he could read its words.

oOo

Philippa was in a very bad way. She was bleeding heavily from her right arm, a right arm that she couldn’t even lift anymore. She was also suffering severe after-effects from being electrocuted. Every muscle in her body twitched, including her heart. She could tell that something was seriously wrong with it. It was beating oddly and felt like it was about to burst. She knew she didn’t have long to live. 

That damn witcher. When the hell did he learn that spell? She felt lucky to be alive, which was more than her dear brother could say, but she knew that she wasn’t going to last much longer. She could feel the life draining from her.

With all the power that she could muster, she cast a portal, hoping that she had enough control over the Power that she wouldn’t end up over the Great Sea. She crawled through the portal, and after exiting the other side, she collapsed to the floor. She looked up and realized that she had no idea where she was. She appeared to be in a tiny, musty, smelly cabin with a single lamp illuminating the darkness. That was not where she’d intended to come. 

“Bloody…hell,” she cursed in a weak gasp. “I cannot…die…like this. I am Philippa…bloody…Eilhart.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Eilhart,” came a smooth voice from the darkness. “You appear to be in need of help. Perhaps, I can assist. But, first, allow me to introduce myself. I am Gaunter O’Dimm, also known as Master Mirror or the Man of Glass.” 

Philippa, unable to lift herself from the floor, simply stared at the bald man from where she lay.

“Would you like my help, Miss Eilhart? Just say the word.”

oOo

The witcher gazed down at Evie’s body, lying face-up on ground. The rain was, unbelievably, still falling hard, and her body was drenched. He was kneeling beside her, with his knife in hand. 

He looked his wife in the face and said, “I’m sorry, Evie, but I’ve got to do this.”

He, then, unbuttoned her shirt and exposed her abdomen. He placed the tip of his knife into the skin just below her sternum and then gently pushed it through the skin and muscle below. After he made a ten-inch incision down towards her belly button, he reached inside the abdominal cavity and cut out her liver. He sliced the liver with his knife and held the organ in front of him with his right hand. As his wife’s blood began to pour out, he caught it in a metal vial that he held below in his left hand. 

After the vial was filled to the top, he put a stopper on its end and laid it down next to him. He, then, carefully placed her liver back inside of her. He was about to reach for his needle and manticore hair to stitch her back up when he looked down at his hands. He paused at what he saw, for his hands were covered in his wife’s blood. He turned them over, palms up, and saw that they were even bloodier on that side. The rain was still coming down hard, and the heavy drops fell onto his palms, mingling with Evie’s blood. He just stared at his hands for the longest time, watching the drops of blood, one after another, fall onto his trousers, staining the material red. 

Suddenly, Geralt felt something break in his chest, and he bowed his head and cried. He cried harder than he’d ever cried in his life. Even harder than when he’d been a little boy back at Kaer Morhen, before the mutations. No tears came to his eyes, but his body was wracked with sobs, low cries of anguish escaping from his throat. Without consciously thinking of doing so, he slowly lifted his arms to his sides, his palms still facing upward. The storm poured down its rain on the witcher, and with his head still bowed low, he continued to cry, his wife’s blood dripping from his hands. Eventually, between sobs, he spoke in the quietest of voices. 

“You’ve broken me,” he whispered. “You’ve broken me…is that what you wanted? Cause you’ve broken me. I’ve got nothing left.” 

He brought his arms back to his sides and rested his hands on his blood-stained thighs. The witcher stayed in that kneeling position, his head down, the rain soaking every part of him, until the storm finally passed. 

Later, after he had finished stitching up Evie’s abdomen, he looked up into her lifeless face and saw that the rain had plastered her hair across her cheeks and forehead. He reached up and tenderly brushed the hair to the side and, as was her custom, hooked it behind her ears. He gently ran the fingertips of his left hand over her cheeks and along the small scar on her chin. He stared into his wife’s face, absorbing what he saw, trying to take in, one last time, every single detail – every small wrinkle and freckle. His eyes then drifted down, drawn to the witcher-medallion resting on her chest – the present that he’d given to her the day they got married. He unclasped the chain, pulled it from her neck, and looked down at the wolf-head in his hand. He squeezed the medallion tightly and then closed his eyes, thinking of her face on their wedding day, her eyes sparkling with tears of love and a radiant smile of joy. He wanted to burn that image into his memory, but in that moment, remembering that day, that image, made the pain even worse. He opened his eyes and looked at his wife again.

“Forgive me, Evie,” he said. “Please…forgive me…that I didn’t save you.” 

He waited a long time – continuing to stare into her face - as if hoping for a response, but none came. 

Eventually, the witcher nodded once to himself and said, “Don’t worry, wife. I’m not gonna leave you here. I made you a promise…so we’re going home now, okay?” 

He swallowed and nodded again. 

“I’m gonna take you home.”

oOo

The End of Book 2: The Wolf Hunts  



	33. Chapter 33

Book 3: The Wolf Dies  
Chapter 1

_The Continent; 1273 Years Ago_

“My brothers, I urge you one last time to reconsider,” pleaded Gaineamh. “Please, do not do this. It is a violation of Essea’s will.” 

The priest of the elven nation and leader of the Holy City faced the rulers of the other eleven, major Aen Seidhe communities. Behind him stood his two sons, Taibhsear and Maccarreg. 

“ _My_ brothers,” said the beautiful stranger, dressed in gleaming white robes, “did your God really say that you were not permitted to visit his realm? It seems to me that he would _want_ you in his presence.” 

He, too, was addressing the eleven kings of the Aen Seidhe city-states. 

“Of course, he would,” the stranger continued in his commanding voice. “But we should have compassion on pitiful Gaineamh.” 

He then faced the priest and smiled. 

“The old and feeble always fear the new. They tremble at progress. They find comfort and safety in the bonds of tradition – even when those bonds do nothing but enslave you.” 

The radiant figure looked back at the eleven kings.

“I am here to give you freedom – the freedom you desire. Listen to your hearts, my brothers. I know you can hear it – your hearts calling you to be free.” 

He looked each elf in the eye. 

“Oh, yes, I can sense it in you. You long to taste it…for liberty is so…sweet,” he said with a smile. “So, break these bonds and truly live.”

Finally, Doille, the king from the largest city-state spoke.

“Apophis speaks truth, Gaineamh. We have heard your warnings. For centuries, we have heard nothing but your warnings. They have never come to pass. Your fear of Essea has unhinged your mind…and our decision has been made,” he finished, looking at his fellow kings lined up beside him. He saw heads nodding in assent. 

Doille stepped forward towards Apophis and reached out his hand. 

“My friend,” he said, “I would be honored to activate the disk.”

Apophis clasped Doille’s shoulder in a fraternal manner and smiled into his face.

“Unfortunately, my brother, none of you are quite ready to wield my staff…not yet, at least. But soon, very soon you will be. Soon you will have all the power in the world. But, for now, I will have to activate it myself.”

As the man in white stepped toward the large device positioned in the middle of the Essean temple, Maccarreg began unsheathing the sword on his hip. Gaineamh threw his right arm out to stop his son’s advance.

“No, Maccarreg,” he said, turning to face his youngest. “They have made their choice.”  
  
He then looked back at the eleven. 

“Do not be deceived, my brothers. Essea will not be mocked. You will reap what you sow.”

Apophis gave a final smile in Gaineamh’s direction before turning and inserting a long, silver rod into the middle of the large contraption. On a thick base, rested a reflective oval disk that was at least ten feet high. The disk was able to spin on two separate axes and was made of a strange type of glass with a silver sheen. As soon as the rod was in place, Apophis took several steps back, and the disk started to slowly move. 

The eyes of everyone in the temple were transfixed upon it, anticipating just what would happen next. Gaineamh shifted his eyes to Apophis to see him staring straight back, a large grin on his face. As the disk began to rotate faster and faster, the stranger began to laugh. The faster the device spun, the louder his laughter became until it was eventually echoing throughout the temple.

“You will now know the power that brings true freedom!” Apophis yelled.

The disk was spinning so fast that it became a blur, and then, suddenly, the temple was filled with white light. 

King Laije shielded his eyes from the bright sparks flashing forth from the vibrating, spinning device, and one thought filled his mind, “This is wrong.” He had known listening to the beautiful stranger was a mistake. So, then, why hadn’t he sided with Gaineamh? Why hadn’t he stood with the elven priest and leader of the Holy City against the other ten kings? He had recognized the truth in Gaineamh’s warning against building Apophis’ device and attempting to enter into the divine realm without Essea’s permission. So, then, why hadn’t he voiced his opinion?

But, deep down, Laije knew why. He clearly and shamefully knew why he hadn’t opposed them. His city was the smallest of the twelve. Though the other leaders never said anything explicit or overt, he could always see the condescension in their eyes when they looked his way. He could hear the ridicule in their voices when they mentioned his city’s name. He was Laije, leader of the smallest, ruler of the weakest. It was still a mystery to him why he’d been anointed the town’s leader in the first place. But, at least back home, he felt sure of himself, confident in his abilities. He took pride in how the citizens of Beag looked up to him, sought out his counsel. But, within this group of Aen Seidhe giants, he was a nobody, and he hated how that made him feel. He would have liked to have shown them that he – and, by extension, his city - was no less important than they were, but the few times that he’d tried, their mocking smiles had shamed him. He could tell that they were only humoring him in listening to his opinion, just like they would with a child. They’d made him feel insignificant. Therefore, since the last time, he had simply always gone along with the majority. 

Laije could hear the ominous laughter of Apophis echoing in his ears, but when he squinted his eyes against the flashes of light to catch a glimpse of the stranger adorned in glowing, white robes, he was nowhere to be found. 

“Where did he go?” he yelled to no one in particular.

Any answer from the Aen Seidhe elves around him was drowned out by the loudest clap of thunder Laije had ever heard. Various works of art and decorations started falling off the walls of the Essean temple, and he instinctively threw his arms out to his side to maintain his balance as the entire stone floor below his feet began to shake. As deafening rumblings continued to sound around them, he saw Gaineamh rush to the front doors of the temple and throw them open. A gale force of wind swept into the temple causing even more damage within. Like the rest of the elves around him, Laije ran out onto the portico of the temple where he, then, stood awestruck at the display before him. Down in the city and further down on the plains below, lightning strikes were hitting the ground one right after another. 

Then, suddenly, Laije felt the oddest sensation, as if the air all around him had become heavy and alive. He quickly looked down to see if the elf next to him was grabbing his arm, but he saw nothing there. He felt something on the nape of his neck, but when he spun around, there was nobody there either. Was he losing he mind? Because he could swear that he sensed some unseen force pushing and pressing against various parts of his body, even causing his ears to “pop.” 

“What in Essea’s name is this!?!” he heard someone from beside him shout. 

And that’s when he saw a large, bluish oval ring appear out of nowhere fifty feet away, just inside the temple courtyard. Suddenly, his vision was filled with dozens and dozens of these portals as they began to materialize – each time with another loud peal of thunder – across the landscape below. Laije stood, with his mouth agape, as he watched an enormous, winged creature step out of the nearest portal. He had never seen anything like it. The creature let out a hideous screech and then stretched out its scaly wings. With a forceful downward thrust, the monster left the temple ground and took flight, heading higher and higher into the air. 

Laije’s attention was suddenly pulled away from the giant, flying monster as he noticed smoke, fires, and cries from numerous Aen Seidhe coming from the Holy City. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and saw Gaineamh, his two sons, and two of his fellow kings running down the steps of the portico, through the temple grounds, and out into the city streets - presumably to help those in distress. Just as he was about to follow along, he heard a bone-chilling howl coming from below. Out of the nearest portal stalked another beast, slowly swiveling its head side to side, as if hunting for prey. Fear instantly flooded Laije’s mind. 

The monster walked on all four legs, as a dog, but that’s where the similarities ended. It was the size of a muscular elf but completely hairless. It had lizard-like, black and red skin; ten-inch, black claws coming from each of its paws; and dozens of small, ebony spines protruding from the top of its back and head. But it was the beast’s face that frightened Laije the most. It looked almost elf-like, with eyes, nose, ears, and mouth all similarly positioned, but its eyes were the darkest of night, and its mouth was filled with serrated, triangular teeth, and long, strings of reddish drool fell from its lips. The creature’s eyes locked onto the elven kings on the portico, and then it let loose with a piercing scream that seemed to knock Laije back a few steps. He caught his balance, and when he looked back at the monster, he noticed two things – its previously small spines were protruding almost two feet from its body, and it was charging fast toward the elves.

Laije and the other Aen Seidhe immediately scrambled back into the interior of the temple, slamming its doors just seconds before the spike-covered beast crashed into them. While four of the elves pressed the full weight of their bodies against the thick, wooden doors, two others grabbed heavy, metal rods and slid them into their appropriate slots to bar the entryway closed. They all instinctively breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived as they heard the monster clawing ferociously on the exterior of the doors and emitting a terrifying cry.

As the other elves slowly backed away from the temple entryway, Laije turned his head to stare at Apophis’ spinning device. It was no longer humming or emitting flashes of light, and it appeared to Laije as if its revolutions were gradually decreasing. The leader of Beag began slowly walking towards the contraption. By the time that he was standing in front of it, the spinning had completely ceased. He caught his reflection in the silvery-glass, and then he noticed the end of Apophis’ rod protruding from the middle of the once-spinning disc. As he tentatively reached out his hand to grasp the staff, he heard a voice from behind.

“Laije! What are you doing? Stay away from it!” 

Laije recognized the voice belonging to the king from a neighboring city to the north, and he turned his head slightly to peer over his shoulder. But ignoring the warning, he turned his eyes back to the device in front of him. His hand hesitated an inch from the staff for just a moment. Then, he reached forth and grasped its end, and pain instantly exploded throughout his body. 

Laije yelled out in agony, his body falling to the floor. The rod, still grasped tightly in his hand, was pulled completely from the device.

The other Aen Seidhe watched in shock as his body twitched and convulsed on the temple floor and cries of torment erupted from his throat. Eventually, one brave elf rushed forth and knelt by Laije’s side. He reached down to grasp his shoulders, but as soon as his hands touched Laije, he was blown backwards twenty feet by some invisible force. The elf’s head cracked against the stone wall of the temple, and his body fell limply to the floor. 

Laije continued to emit excruciating cries for several minutes, feeling as if his body was melting on the inside. He could sense parts of himself literally shifting and changing within. Just as the pain throughout his body was starting to subside, he experienced the most intense agony yet in his brain. He instinctively brought both hands up to his temples, his right hand still grasping tightly the metal rod. As he closed his eyes and yelled again, an image flashed before him of thousands of tiny, ribbon-like worms – their mouths full of sharp, saw-like teeth – slowly burrowing and twisting their way into the deep recesses of his mind, coiling tightly around the tendrils of his psyche. He screamed and screamed until his vocal cords eventually ruptured under the stress. Eventually, slowly, the convulsions and moans stopped, and the elf lay on his side on the temple floor, curled up in a ball and gasping for breath.

Blood was seeping from Laije’s eyes, nose, and ears. With a moan, he rolled over onto his front and then lifted himself up to his knees. The elf was breathing deeply, and blood-tinged saliva hung from his mouth. He brought his left hand to his face and wiped the blood from his chin and then from his eyes, trying to clear his vision. He blinked quickly several times and then looked down at the rod of Apophis in his right hand. To his complete surprise, the staff had changed its shape and was now the most beautiful sword that he’d ever seen, with a silver blade so void of impurities that he could perfectly see his reflection. He paused when he noticed that his hair had turned white. As he stared at himself, the smallest of disturbing smiles formed on his blood-covered face. 

Laije slowly stood, and he felt a surge of strength within that he’d never known before. His muscles rippled with power, quivering beneath his skin just waiting to be unleashed. He continued to peer at his reflection in the blade of the sword, and then his eyes shifted to the now-terrified Aen Seidhe who were standing behind him. Hatred flashed through his mind as he remembered the shame and embarrassment that these elves had routinely caused in him with their mocking arrogance and condescension. He slowly turned and faced the remaining kings before him, glaring deeply into their eyes. 

“So, I’m Laije the Weak, is that right?” he asked rhetorically, his voice now raspy and harsh from damaged vocal cords. 

“Laije, are you okay?” and “What are you talking about?” were just two of the confused responses. 

He slowly rotated his wrist in front of him, the sword flashing from side to side, and a cruel, predatory smile emerged across his face. He then held the sword up and to his side, staring at it in wonder and awe. 

“You Aen Seidhe will now see just how weak and insignificant you are,” Laije growled.

He turned his head, locked eyes with the closest elf, and inhaled deeply. Suddenly, he pointed the sword in the direction of the elf, and to everyone’s astonishment, a stream of fire erupted from the sword’s tip, engulfing the elf. The look on Laije’s face was one of pure joy. As the interior of the temple filled with both the screams and the stench of the burning Aen Seidhe, Laije quickly flicked his wrist, and a flash of black light poured forth from the sword blasting a second elf off his feet. The blackness seemed as if it was actually alive. It seeped into the supine elf’s skin and then began crawling throughout his veins. His screams of agony now matched those of the still-burning elf. 

A slow, deep laugh began to emerge from Laije’s throat as he took in the death around him. Suddenly, two of the remaining elves started running for the locked front doors while two others rushed towards Laije with their weapons drawn. With a simple twist of his wrist, several bolts of lightning shot forth from the sword and struck the two attackers, their bodies convulsing uncontrollably before falling to the floor. Two Aen Seidhe were frantically trying to open the temple doors, but he quickly – and almost effortlessly - dispatched of them with his powerful weapon. He, then, slowly removed the metal bars himself and threw open the heavy doors with ease. The alghoul, still on the temple portico, immediately leapt in the air, its claws extended to shred the elf’s body. Laije swung the sword hard, cutting the monster completely in two. 

The ruler of the tiny city of Beag stood atop the portico of the temple of Essea, staring down at the chaos and destruction below him in the Holy City and on the plains beyond. And he smiled. He gazed at the sword in his hand for a moment and then turned his focus back again to the carnage before him.

“They will all kneel…or die…or both,” he declared with a snarl and then slowly descended the steps of the temple. 

oOo

_The Nilfgaardian Province of Maecht; September 1273_

Lydial sat in a dark room in a small inn on the outskirts of the city of Maecht. She was tied to a chair, and on the table next to her was a single candle, its small flame doing just enough to keep her from being swallowed by complete darkness. She could hear the normal noises of a busy tavern just below her – chairs scraping against the wooden floor, muffled voices of the patrons, doors slamming shut. 

She’d been in non-stop prayer since leaving the cavern, and she was doing her best not to give up hope, but given the condition of Evie and Geralt’s fallen, bloody, and broken bodies the last time that she’d seen them, she knew just how unlikely their survival was. Had Essea promised her that they’d survive, then that would have been different. She could have then rested in that promise, knowing full-well it would be fulfilled. However, she had received no such promise from her God and, therefore, knew that, while Essea heard her prayers, there was no guarantee that he’d answer them the way she wanted. So, she simply prayed that Essea was comforting them, wherever they were.

Lydial was in the middle of this prayer when the door to the room opened and Barcain walked in. The aroma from the plate of food he was carrying wafted over to Lydial and made her mouth water. Barcain set the plate and a mug of some beverage on the table in front of her and then reached around to untie her hands from the chair. 

“Here you go, Nain,” he said. “I trust you won’t run off.”

Lydial was conflicted. She had much to say to her grandson – they hadn’t spoken to each other since leaving the cavern in the mountains – but she was also starving. She’d been so upset the last few days that she’d had trouble forcing anything down. She had simply had no appetite. Finally, she decided she could eat and talk at the same time and began digging into her meal. After a minute of shoveling food into her mouth, she washed it down with some mead and looked at her grandson.

“Why, Barcain? Why would you betray your own sister like that?” 

He slowly shook his head. 

“Nain, I think you’re conveniently forgetting that it was Angel who started all of this when she stole the book from Emhyr. Had she not, then she’d still be alive. And, anyway…I never wanted her to die. That was never part of the plan, and I had nothing to do with her death.”

“But you still lied to her – to me. Is the Sword more important to you than your own flesh and blood?”

Barcain narrowed his eyes at his grandmother. 

“My blood? Do not talk to me about my blood. My blood is cursed,” he said with a sneer.

“What? What are talking about?”

“The Aen Seidhe are cursed, Nain. Don’t deny it. The world hates you. The world wants nothing more than to eradicate you from existence, and it’s done a damn fine job of it. It’s almost complete. And, honestly, I don’t even blame the world. You Aen Seidhe are despicable – with your arrogance…your disdain for anyone not full-blooded. You treat the rest of the us with contempt. Growing up – and hell, even for the last year and a half living with you – I was treated worse than a mangy mongrel.”

“Okay, you’re right, I can’t deny that, and I’m sorry you went through it. But I never treated you that way. Evangeline never treated you like that.”

“Maybe so, but you chose to live with them. You chose to live in that society when you didn’t have to. You chose to blend in with those pricks, thereby endorsing their behavior.”

“I never endorsed it. I fought against that kind of prejudice.”

“Yeah? Well, you did a hell of job, Nain.” He then shook his head. “You know, when you got raped and pregnant, you should have just aborted it.”

“What? How can you say that about your own mother? How can you say that about you? You wouldn’t be here if I had.”

Barcain shrugged. “Better that than carrying around Aen Seidhe blood in my veins.” He then shook his head, the contempt clear on his face. “Just a quarter. That’s all I’m tainted, but that’s been enough. That cursed elven blood has been the bane of my life. It’s bad enough that the Aen Seidhe look down their noses at me, but that gods-forsaken blood has kept me from everything that I’ve ever wanted. When I told you that I was ostracized in my unit when they found out about my heritage, that wasn’t a lie. All I’ve ever wanted was to follow in Malek’s footsteps, to move up the ranks, to be a leader of men. But that dream was stolen from me – because of this cursed blood.”

Lydial’s brow was furrowed. 

“I’m sorry, Barcain. I really am. And I understand why you hate the Aen Seidhe. You’re right. They treated your mother, you, your brother and sister, even me horribly. I can’t defend their behavior. But what I don’t understand is why you’re helping Nilfgaard if you hate them so much, too. They treated you just as poorly.”

Barcain stared at Lydial and breathed deeply several times. 

“I don’t need for you to understand. I just need for you to read those Aen Seidhe scrolls and then tell us where the Sword is located.”

“You can’t be serious,” she said with steel in her voice. “What in the world makes you think I’ll actually help you – and the Black Ones - find the Sword after everything you’ve done?”

At that point, Barcain scooched his chair up close to Lydial’s – so close that his knees were touching her thighs. He then leaned over and spoke softly.

“I’m not going to threaten you, Nain. You’ve always been good to me. But you will read those texts and you will find the clues we need. Because if you don’t, I will burn down the entire Dol Blathanna palace, including all of your precious unborn babies on the third floor. And I promise you – I can. Don’t think Malek and his two lackeys are the only friends I’ve got.”

oOo

_The Nilfgaardian Province of Nazair_

Yeshua was soaring through the clouds, his eyes focused on the white crow that was flying in front of him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that he should be enjoying the experience – the freedom of breaking gravity’s grip and floating through the sky - but he wasn’t enjoying it at all. His heart and mind were troubled. The confusion of what was transpiring was robbing him of peace. He knew that this experience wasn’t normal. It was trying to convey some type of message, but he just couldn’t figure it out.

Suddenly, the crow flapped its wings several times and flew higher and out of the clouds. Yeshua followed him closely and then saw the summit of Mount Gorgon up ahead. Seconds later, the two of them passed over the peak and began soaring down the eastern slope. Yeshua looked down to see the trees of the forest zooming past him. When he lifted his gaze, he saw the land of Toussaint spread out before him in all of its beauty. He easily recognized the duchy just to the northeast of Nazair since he’d been there before in his travels.

As he and the white crow approached the city of Beauclair, his vision suddenly went black, and an image flashed before his eyes – a vision of an albino wolf. Its greyish-white fur was streaked with dark blood in several places. As it hobbled along a small, dirt path, it would occasionally lift its head towards the full moon above it and let loose with a mournful howl. 

It was then that Yeshua heard someone calling his name. 

“Yeshua! Yeshua, come back to me!” said a feminine voice. It sounded as if it was coming from the bottom of a deep well. 

Yeshua knew that voice. He adored that voice. Hearing it brought some peace to his troubled heart. As the voice became louder and louder, he felt his body shaking, and, then, he opened his eyes. 

oOo

_The Tir Torchair Mountains_

Sweat poured down the witcher’s brow and into his eyes. He reached up feebly, wiped his forehead, and then let his hand fall limply back down to his thigh. His side was in pain, but it was bearable. His right leg, though, was in absolute agony. It was throbbing and felt on fire. The witcher had always thought he was immune from infection, but this amputation was proving him wrong. He’d taken a shot of Swallow that morning, but it didn’t seem to be fighting off the toxins at all. What he really needed was a White Honey potion, but he was completely out of the necessary alchemical components to brew it. 

Two days had passed since Evie’s death, and it had taken Geralt that entire time to make it to the western side of the Duilichinn Pass. He had quickly discovered just how long routine activities took with only one working leg. He’d spent hours trying to find and then cut enough tree limbs to construct a litter on which to pull his wife’s corpse. Then, it had taken him over a day to clear the rockslide from the pass just enough to allow his camel to climb over. 

Now, he was just trying to do his best to stay astride the camel’s back. His vision was blurry and his head felt heavy, his chin continuing to fall to his chest. But as bad as shape as the witcher was in physically, his fevered mind was in worse torment as it kept replaying the events in the cavern over and over. 

The White Wolf was disembodied, floating above the fray. He looked down on himself, standing over Evie’s bloody, dying body. 

“Give her the potion…the potion,” he mumbled weakly.

But he watched himself – instead of caring for his wife - staring across the chasm at Malek. 

“Give her…the potion,” he said, his voice full of anguish.

But the Geralt in the vision never knelt and tended to his love. Instead, full of rage and seeking vengeance, he rushed towards his enemy an instant before being stabbed by the invisible man. Even through the fevered fog clouding his brain, he knew that he’d lost his chance to ever save his wife.

“No…no.” 

The words came out slurred as his head rocked back and forth in time with the camel’s steps. 

Suddenly, the witcher came out of his thoughts as the camel made a bellowing noise and a roaring sound filled his ears. He blinked his eyes and raised his head to see the Imlebar River blocking his path up ahead. The heavy storms two night previously had filled the river to overflowing, and the trail that he was on and that headed down the mountain now looked unpassable. He wasn’t sure if there had once been a bridge at that location to cross the river, but if so, then it had clearly been washed away. He urged his camel forward anyway. 

When the animal came to within fifteen feet of the roaring rapids, it suddenly stopped, and when Geralt tried to spur it forward, it jerked its head back in defiance. In his weakened state, the witcher tumbled backwards off of the camel, and as he fell, his flailing right arm crashed against the litter. He shattered one of the litter’s arms that was attached to the camel’s end, and the make-shift carrier tipped over onto its side. 

Geralt hit the ground on the right side of the camel with a thud and then began to roll down a gentle slope. He let out a grunt as his back slammed against the trunk of a tree, and when he looked up, he saw the damaged litter, with Evie’s corpse, sliding down the slope in his direction, finally coming to stop about ten feet away in the thick green grass. The witcher’s breathing was coming shallow and fast, and his body, lying on its left side, was covered with sweat. He blindly reached over to the small pouch on his belt and pulled out the last vial inside, but he fumbled it with his fingers. The health potion fell to the ground, and as it began to roll away, he reached out to grasp it, but it evaded his grip and his hand caught nothing but several blades of grass. Luckily, however, the vial rolled to a stop against his thigh instead of continuing down the hill and out of reach. On his second attempt, he grasped it and brought it to his mouth, where he removed the cork stopper with his teeth. After swallowing down the potion, he rested his head on the ground and closed his eyes.

But, before the nightmares from the cavern could again start playing through his mind, he heard the sounds of footsteps softly approaching, accompanied by the whistling of an ominous tune. 

  
  
oOo

_Nazair_

Yeshua blinked his eyes several times until his vision cleared, and he looked up into the anxious face of his wife, Leyna. 

“It happened again?” he asked.

She nodded, concern clearly in her eyes. 

For the last month, her husband had been suffering from unexplained seizures. The two of them had visited every healer, herbalist, and alchemist in and around the small town of Aranbhaile, but none could discover the cause of this new malady in the young and, seemingly, otherwise healthy carpenter. She was so desperate that she had even suggested that he travel the hundred plus miles to Neunreuth to visit one of that city’s pellars or witches, but Yeshua had refused since he had no other disturbing symptoms – so far. He was experiencing no headaches or other pain, and frankly, he had always been a bit leery of magic. The whole idea of it made him uneasy.

“Did you have the visions again?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“The same one – the white crow and the wolf?”

He nodded and then raised himself up into a sitting position.

“Anything new or different this time?”

“Yes,” he said as he scratched his chin through his thick beard. “The wolf was injured in this vision.” He then sighed deeply. “Of course, I still don’t understand what any of it means.”

“If it actually does mean something.” The skepticism was clear in her voice.

“Leyna,” he chided. “I’ve told you. These visions are more real than any dream I’ve ever had. They are as real as you are right now.”

This time Leyna sighed. 

“Then hurry up and figure it out. I’m tired of seeing my husband thrashing about on the floor. It’s scaring me to death.” 

Yeshua brought his wife into a hug. 

“I’m sorry, Leyna. I’m sorry that you’re going through this. I promise we’ll figure this out soon. This isn’t happening by accident. I know it.” 

“If you say so,” she said. She still didn’t sound convinced. “Are you hungry?” she asked, knowing well now how his body reacted to the seizures.

“Ravenous.”

“Then, rise and come. I’ve got some goulash in the pot.”

oOo

_The Tir Torchair Mountains_

“Greetings, Geralt.”

“What in the bloody hell?” thought the witcher. He recognized that voice. 

“My, my…you are in dire straits, aren’t you?” 

As Geralt heard the voice approaching, his heart actually started beating faster. For the first time in – maybe forever – he felt full blown fear. When the voice spoke again, it was much closer. 

“It seems that every time you and I meet, you are in desperate need of help, but this time…well…your circumstances are most dreadful, aren’t they? I dare say…they’re almost hopeless.”

Geralt slowly opened his eyes to see a being he had hoped he’d never be in the presence of ever again. 

“I beat you, O’Dimm,” he said in a weak voice. “You were supposed to go away. That was the deal.”

“And I did go away, Geralt. I always honor my pacts,” the bald man said. And then a smile came to his face. “But our deal never stated that I had to stay away.” 

“I forgot,” said the witcher, feebly shaking his head. “You’re the master of fine print and…twisted interpretations.”

“Now, now…is it my fault if you mortals can’t read a contract?” O’Dimm asked innocently as his grin widened.

The witcher didn’t bother to answer. His mind was on other things – like just what in the hell O’Dimm was doing there. He lifted his torso from the ground and sat up, leaning back against the tree. He stared into the bald man’s dark eyes.

“I knew that was you in that papaver den. Knew it,” he said, blinking his eyes and trying to control his breathing. “You’ve been following me since Azabar.”

“Oh, Geralt, I’ve been following you for much longer than that.”

“What…Why?” Sweat was pouring from Geralt’s face.

“You interest me, Witcher. It’s not often that anyone gets the best of me. In fact, never. So, I’ve been watching you.”

“Swell. So…here we are…just the two of us,” Geralt rasped out. “So, what exactly do you want?” 

“Why, Geralt, to give aid to an old friend. What else?”

“We’re not friends, O’Dimm.”

“Ahh, Witcher. You wound me.” 

The Merchant of Mirrors then crouched down so that he was face-to-face with Geralt. 

“Are you saying that you don’t want my assistance…because, you know, I could fix all of this for you. Would you like help in finding your friend, Lydial? Not a problem.” 

He then looked down at Geralt’s right calf. 

“What about a new leg? It’d be nice to walk again, wouldn’t it?” 

When the witcher didn’t answer, he smiled and snapped his fingers. 

“Oh, I know!” he then stood and walked over to Evie’s corpse. “How about I bring your beloved back to you? I know you’d like that. Maybe the next time, you won’t let her die.” 

The witcher looked into O’Dimm’s smirking face. He clenched his jaws together and then swallowed. “You could do that?”

“Geralt, Geralt,” he said with a chuckle. “There’s little I can’t do.” 

“But you won’t do it for nothing, right?”

“Well, I am a merchant, Geralt, and I wouldn’t be much of a businessman if I simply gave away my services for free.” 

“What would you want – to bring her back to life?”

“You already know the answer to that, my friend. What do I always want?”

The witcher nodded. “A soul.”

“A small price to pay to once again be with the love of your life, no?”

Geralt stared at his wife’s corpse for the longest time, his breathing still shallow and fast. He pictured the sparkle in her eyes, the mischief in her smile when she teased him, the feel of her lips when she kissed him. He missed all of that and more. He knew that he would have given anything – even his own life – to keep her alive. Would he now give anything to bring her back? But the bigger question was - would she even want him to. Finally, he pulled his eyes from Evie and looked back at O’Dimm, who was standing again and pacing back and forth in front of the witcher.

“I don’t know,” Geralt replied. “Essea might say…my soul would be a huge price to pay.”

O’Dimm laughed. “Oh, please. Essea?” 

Then, he stopped pacing, and his face turned serious. 

“You still actually care what he thinks – after what he’s done to you?”

“What…what do you mean?”

“Geralt, Geralt…poor, pitiful Geralt.” The look on O’Dimm’s face was one of pure condescension. “You know as well as I do that you can’t trust him. He let you down. And don’t pretend you haven’t had the same thoughts. I heard what you said to him on the mountain. He led Evie to find the sword, but did he help her when she needed it most? Well, clearly not. What he actually led her to was her death. And you? He whispered in your ear to return to Tarsus. He whispered in your ear to save her life from those bandits and nurse her back to health. He whispered for you to stay with her, to give your heart to her, to marry her and protect her. But, in the end, did he give you aid to do what he commanded you to do? Again, clearly not. He is an impotent god, Geralt. The great breaker of promises…of promises that he either can’t or simply won’t keep. A god like that deserves no loyalty. In fact, I’d say a god like that is no true god at all. He does nothing but take. He took your leg, took your friends…he took your daughter…and your wife. You owe him no allegiance.”

The witcher and Master Mirror stared at each other. Finally, the witcher swallowed, and then O’Dimm smiled widely. 

“But me, you know I always follow through with my pacts. You’ve seen my power. You know I can give you what I promise.”

O’Dimm once again crouched down low, close to Geralt.

“All you have to do is say the word, Geralt, and I’ll make all your pain go away.”

The witcher blinked his eyes several times. Drops of sweat were running down into them, making them sting.

“But, if I…if I give you my soul…” He was starting to have trouble thinking and speaking. He wondered if delirium was setting in. “I won’t get…to see Evie in heaven.”

“Ahh, Geralt…that’s Essea’s biggest lie. That only those who follow him get into heaven. Let me tell you a little secret, my friend. Everyone has an after-life. You’ll get to spend eternity with Evie regardless of whether you worship Essea, Freya, Melitele, or any other god…or no god at all. The Essean religion is nothing but a big con; to get you to worship a weak, pathetic god; to enslave you and to stroke his massive ego. But it’s nothing but a lie. So, what do you say, Witcher? For you, I’m even willing to bargain. That’s how much I like you,” O’Dimm finished with a smile. 

Geralt stared into the eyes of the mysterious man. They were so dark that they were almost hypnotic. The witcher could see his face reflecting back in them. Eventually, Geralt broke his stare, noticed the small smile on O’Dimm’s face, and then shifted his gaze over to his wife’s corpse. He looked at her longingly for several long moments, and then his eyes flashed to the right – just past her body – for just an instant before he brought them back to center – staring down at his right leg. As he looked at his stump, he slowly gave his head a barely perceptible nod. Finally, he looked up at O’Dimm again, and O’Dimm’s smile grew wide.

“I…” Geralt said, but he didn’t finish his thought. Instead, he looked at Evie and leaned his body over to his right, falling onto his stomach.

A curious look crossed O’Dimm’s face as he watched the witcher start crawling towards his wife. 

“Yes, Geralt? You what?” asked O’Dimm. “You want my help?”

At that point, Geralt was next to Evie. He got on his knees and cut the straps that were fastening her to the litter. He then reached down and lifted her body off the ground and gently placed her over his left shoulder. 

“Geralt,” said O’Dimm, furrowing his brows. “What are you doing?”

The witcher was still on his knees, but he’d turned his back on the Man of Glass and was slowly making his way towards the river’s edge. When he finally got there, he turned and faced O’Dimm. His hands were shaking and his face was covered in sweat again. 

“You’re right, O’Dimm. You heard me on the mountain…so I can’t deny it. I was full of anger…and I’m still full of questions. So, I gotta ask myself – who do I trust more? Him or you?”

Geralt swallowed to catch his breath.

“I’ve gotta admit. You make a convincing argument. I’d love to have Evie alive and back in my arms. There’s only one problem. While I’m still learning who Essea is…I know who you are. Maybe not exactly what you are, but I know who you are.”

The witcher’s breathing was incredibly heavy. Just the effort to hold Evie and talk was wearing him out.

“Remember, I’ve seen how you operate,” the White Wolf continued. “There’s no telling what kind of twisted stunt you’d pull if you did bring her back. So, even if I still have questions about Essea…I know that I don’t choose you.” 

With that, Geralt – holding onto Evie’s corpse – fell backward into the strong current and was swiftly pushed down river. 

As O’Dimm watched the witcher disappear into the rapids, he had a small smile on his face.

“Oh, Geralt, you won’t get away from me that easily. The fun is just beginning. Until the next, Witcher.” 

And then with a clap of his hands, the Man of Glass vanished.


	34. Chapter 34

Book 3: The Wolf Dies  
Chapter 2

_The Tir Torchair Mountains_

Geralt was doing his best to keep his head above water, but with only one arm – he was holding onto Evie with the other – and with only one good leg, he simply didn’t have the power to fight against the force of the river’s rapids. It was a miracle that he had not yet been slammed against any boulders or been hit in the head or on his inflamed stump by the numerous logs floating along. His lungs were on fire from a lack of oxygen, and with all of his might, he propelled himself upward with a kick of his leg and a pull of his cupped hand. A moment later, his head bobbed up above the surface, and in that instant, the witcher did two things - he took a deep breath, and he also cast his eyes down river. 

“Damn it,” he thought to himself as his head submerged again under the rapids. 

The witcher hadn’t seen any dangerous boulders up ahead. In fact, he hadn’t seen anything but blue sky – just a complete ending of the river itself. He was heading towards a waterfall, and he had no idea just how high it was or exactly what lie below. Suddenly, he felt himself falling through the air, head over end. Several seconds went by before his body slammed against the water’s surface below, knocking the wind from his lungs and ripping Evie’s corpse from his grip. 

Immediately, the witcher began sinking, the weight of his weapons and armor pulling him down. In his weakened state, he simply had nothing left to give. He opened his eyes and looked toward the surface, seeing Evie’s body above him, backlit by the rays of the afternoon sun. He let one hand drift upward as he continued to sink deeper and deeper down, the darkness closing in all around him. 

“Evie,” he whispered in his mind, and then a moment later, capable of holding his breath not a second longer, he involuntarily inhaled, taking in a lung-full of water. 

As the oxygen to his mind began to diminish, the witcher suddenly felt a small hand grasp his own. He lifted his head and swore that he saw a human shape – that of a naked female with long, dark hair.

“The Lady of the Lake?” was his last thought just before his vision went black.

oOo

_Nazair_

Yeshua bent over the table and, with one eye shut, brought his face down close to the top. He scanned the surface and then slowly ran his fingertips over the smooth, finished wood. He nodded his head, and a smile of satisfaction emerged on his face as he raised back up. Yeshua was a carpenter, and his small shop was connected to his home on the outskirts of Aranbhaile. But he wasn’t just any carpenter. He was a master-craftsman, known all over the Nilfgaardian provinces for his expertise in working with wood. It didn’t matter what the customer wanted – something as simple as a breadbox or as complex as an ornate frame to grace the walls of a royal palace – the quality of Yeshua’s work was unmatched. 

It was just past noon, and Yeshua’s shirt was clinging to his body, and his sweaty forearms were speckled with sawdust. He had every window and door of his shop open as an invitation for any breeze to blow through and cool the place down. He was just moving to grab a different tool when he heard a strange – but somehow familiar – noise coming from outside his shop. Yeshua jerked his head upward and gazed through the open front door, and his eyes went wide in shock. Across the dusty road, under a large tree in neighbor Allman’s field, was a filthy albino wolf, its fur caked in dirt and dried blood. The creature was staring right back at Yeshua, and it emitted a noise from its throat – a half-growl, half-whimper. 

Yeshua suddenly realized that his heart was pounding. He blinked his eyes, thinking that this might be another vision, but deep down, he knew it was real. 

“Le-Leyna!” he yelled as quietly as possible. He didn’t want to spook the wolf. 

When a few seconds passed and he still hadn’t heard his wife answering back nor coming his way from inside their home, he turned his head toward the open door that connected his shop with their house and shouted louder.

“Leyna! Come out here, now!”

“Yeshua!” he heard her yell back in fear.

He quickly turned his head back to the door, but the wolf was no longer there. He rushed to the shop’s front entrance and gazed up and down the road, but the wolf was nowhere to be seen. Just then, Leyna came running into the shop. When she saw her husband standing, she let out a huge sigh.

“Oh, you gave me such a fright,” she exclaimed. “I thought you were having another episode.”

Yeshua slowly turned back to face his wife. 

“An albino wolf,” he said, the shock evident in his voice. “Right across the road. I saw it.”

Leyna wrinkled her brows at her spouse. When she realized that he was being serious, she walked over to the open, front door, and looked towards the field. After her eyes scanned in both directions and saw nothing, she looked at her husband.

“Yeshua,” she said with concern in her eyes, “are you sure you didn’t have another seizure?”

“Leyna, please don’t patronize to me. I’m not going mad. I know what I saw.”

She was about to respond, when she heard a guttural caw coming from outside. They both turned their heads and just stood there, speechless at what they saw before them. Across the road, perched in a high branch in the large tree, was a white crow. It was looking directly at Yeshua. It cawed twice more and gave a flap of its wings.

“Do you believe me now?” Yeshua whispered.

Leyna just nodded. Her mouth was open, mesmerized by what she was seeing. Finally, she spoke.

“What do you think it wants from you?”

“I don’t know, but…I guess I’ll find out,” he answered as he stepped through the door. 

Leyna was right behind him. The two of them slowly walked across the dirt road and stood before the large tree, looking upward toward the crow. It stared down at Yeshua, cawed again, and then took flight. It flapped its wings and headed off toward the north-east. After flying a hundred yards, the crow looked back, but Yeshua had still not moved. He was still standing in the middle of the road, his eyes fixated on the bird. The crow circled back around and lit on a lower branch of the tree in front of the carpenter and his wife. It, again, looked right at Yeshua and, this time, cawed very loudly several times. 

Leyna reached up and gripped the sleeve of Yeshua’s shirt.

“I think it wants you to follow,” she whispered.

oOo

_Maecht_

Timataal was concerned. In their thirty plus years of friendship, he’d never seen Malek as he was in his current state. Sure, he’d seen Malek drunk before, but it had always been after successfully completing a difficult mission. During a moment to relax and celebrate still being alive. He’d never known his friend to use alcohol to drown his sorrows. But, in the last twenty-four hours, since they’d arrived in Maecht, it seemed as if Malek was only doing two things - either drinking or sleeping it off. 

Not that there was much else to do as they waited for Lydial to work her way through all of the Essean manuscripts. Timataal was honestly surprised that she’d even agreed to read and divulge their contents. He wasn’t sure what Barcain had used to persuade her, but he didn’t figure that he’d simply said “please.” Barcain may have been Malek’s nephew, but there was something about the man that just rubbed Timataal the wrong way. 

He was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of a bottle slamming down against the table top. Malek – sitting across from him - had just re-filled his mug to the brim and was taking a long, slow, deliberate drink. The red-head knew Malek was hurting. In fact, he’d purposely given the big man space and time to process his grief. That morning, Malek had told him that he needed to take a walk. When he hadn’t returned to their inn by nightfall, Timataal went looking for him, eventually finding him in a tavern on the other side of town. They’d been sitting there in relative silence for the last couple of hours, Malek showing no interest in eating, playing cards, or doing anything other than steadily consuming the alcohol before him. Timataal didn’t like the path down which his friend seemed to be heading so he decided that it was time to say something.

“You couldn’t have saved her. You know that, right? There was no way across that abyss.”

Malek looked into his friend’s eyes and breathed deeply. He then stared down into his mug and took a deep gulp. He carefully set the mug back on the table and stared at Timataal.

“You think that’s what I’m upset about? That I couldn’t save her?”

Timataal raised an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah. Is it not?”

A look of disgust crossed Malek’s face and he clenched his jaws tightly.

“I killed her, Tim. I killed my own flesh and blood.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

“In the cavern, I shot her. She died because of me.”

“Alright, slow down. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“I saw Eilhart across the abyss. I had that witch right in my sights. I fired, and then… Evangeline went down.” Malek was shaking his head. “There’s no way I should have hit her. No way.”

“Are you sure…cause there was a lot going on in that cavern, Malek. That huge scorpion was attacking us. We were all trying to fight it off. Are you sure no one bumped into you, knocked your aim off?”

“No one. I’m positive. And I know there’s nothing wrong with my weapon, with the barrel, because my very next shot – my next one at Eilhart - hit dead-center.”

Timataal breathed out loudly. “So, somehow…you shot – and possibly killed - your own niece?”

Malek, looking into his friend’s eyes, just nodded. 

Timataal reached across the table, grabbed the bottle of booze, and carefully refilled Malek’s mug. He then filled his own. 

“Then, I say, let’s drink,” declared Malek’s best friend.

oOo

_Montecalvo_

Philippa Eilhart opened her eyes and immediately gasped, but her shock wasn’t because she didn’t know where she was. The burgundy-colored canopy above her clued her into the fact that she was in her own bed in her own castle. Her joyful amazement was because her vision had been fully restored. She could tell that the eyes in her head were her own. She breathed in deeply and detected a musty smell, which made sense considering she hadn’t been home in over a month. But, while her surroundings were familiar, she could instantly tell that her body was not. It felt odd, and it wasn’t just due to the new eyes. She raised herself up from the mattress and threw back the covers. She was completely naked and gasped again at what she saw.

“What in the hell did he do?” she asked herself.

The sorceress quickly got out of bed and rushed over to her vanity set. When she saw herself the mirror, her jaw literally fell open. She slowly sat down in the short chair located in front of the vanity, but her eyes never left her reflected image. 

Suddenly, Philippa’s heart began beating rapidly. Her breathing was fast and shallow, and, then, tears started to well in her eyes. Looking back at the sorceress from Montecalvo was a young girl - an eleven-year-old Philippa with poor complexion; dry, lifeless hair; and an incredibly skinny frame with small breasts. And, then, the memories flooded her mind.

_“But I miss him,” timidly squeaked Philippa, with her head down and wringing her hands together in her lap._

_“I know you do,” replied Tissaia de Vries. “It’s common and natural for new students to be homesick in the first two weeks. But it will pass.”_

_Philippa, with her feet barely touching the floor, sat in a large chair across from the expansive desk of the assistant rector of the Aretuza Magical Academy._

_“But my brother’s all I’ve got,” the girl whispered as tears streamed down her acne-covered face._

_Upon hearing those words, the stern-faced woman rose from her seat, came to the other side of the desk, and sat in the chair next to Philippa. She turned their chairs so that they were facing each other._

_“My dear, you are wrong about that,” said de Vries. “You have something inside of you that is far greater than any other person could ever be.”_

_Philippa lifted her head just a smidge and peered at the intimidating woman through the long hair that had fallen forward and was covering her face._

_“Miss Eilhart, you have the ability to control the Power,” the sorceress continued. “With magic, you will never want for anything…ever again. Doesn’t that sound fantastic?”_

_Philippa gave a slight nod of her head._

_“And no one will ever be able to hurt you again. No one will ever beat you or rape you or take advantage of you ever again. Not your father. Not your brother. No one. You can have kings of nations bowing at your feet. People will worship you for what you can do. And…you can make yourself look however your heart desires.”_

_With that, Tissaia de Vries moved her arms and spoke a spell. Philippa looked up to see what was happening, and suddenly a bright, red light shot from the sorceress’ hands and covered Philippa’s face, the Power blowing the girl’s lifeless hair back. Philippa, startled, lurched against the back of her chair. When she looked back at the assistant rector sitting across from her, she noticed that the witch held a small mirror in her hand._

_“Go ahead, look at your face,” she said. “See for yourself what magic can do.”_

_Philippa glanced up at de Vries but then, eventually, scooched forward in her chair and peeked into the mirror. Her breath caught in her throat, and then a small smile appeared on her face. The first smile she’d worn in weeks. Her acne had disappeared. The skin on her face was as clear and as smooth as that of the sorceress sitting across from her. She finally pulled her gaze away from the mirror and looked into the adult witch’s eyes._

_De Vries nodded. “What I just did for you is nothing, Philippa. Just a small taste of what the Power can do.” After a pause, she continued. “But Magic comes with a price. Family, as you know it, will no longer exist. You will become sterile, never having a child of your own. And you will need to forget about your brother.”_

_“But -” she began to protest._

_“No! No ‘buts,’” said de Vries forcefully. “You cannot have everything. That is the cost of magic.”_

_She then reached forward, put her fingertips under Philippa’s chin, and lifted her face back up._

_“Philippa, with magic, you don’t need a family anymore. Magic will become your everything. It will become your family. It will become your lover. It will be your god. It will protect you. It will strengthen you. It will give you freedom. Magic - and magic alone - is the only thing worth worshipping in this world, and you, Miss Eilhart, will be able to use it…to caress it…to control it.”_

_She then leaned back and withdrew her hand from Philippa’s face._

_“But the choice is yours. If you prefer to be with your brother, then I can give you a parcel of food and a few coins, and, in the morning, you can be on your way. I can teach you the full power of Magic - things that your little mind can’t even imagine, but what I can’t do…is decide for you. So, what do you choose, Miss Eilhart – Power or your brother?”_

_The skinny, pubescent girl looked into the sorceress’ eyes and swallowed._

_“I choose magic,” she said with a nod of her head._  
  
Philippa came out of her memories, still staring at her eleven-year-old self in the mirror, and a single tear fell down her cheek. She then clenched her jaw, cast a spell, and suddenly, the acne on her face disappeared. She may have looked like a little girl, but she actually felt stronger than she’d felt in years – perhaps ever. 

“Well,” she said out loud, “this body is not what I had in mind, but I am alive…so it appears that the little bald man kept his word after all. And most importantly, I can still control the Power.”  
  
A moment later, she conjured a small bathrobe to fit her thin body. As she slipped it on, she felt an odd, uncomfortable sensation across the back of her shoulder, as if the fabric had snagged on something sharp. She pulled the robe back off and turned her back to the mirror. She saw something small and black in the middle of her right shoulder blade. She reached across her neck, moved her fingertips over her back, and furrowed her brows. She felt several, very bristly, inch-long hairs.

oOo

_Maecht_

“Damn it, Mal,” groaned Timataal. “We’re not young anymore.”

The two men – who were both approaching sixty summers - were still in the same tavern where they’d been the night before, not even bothering to walk back to their room at the inn on the other side of town. They were the only ones left in the tavern. The owner, having noticed the Nilfgaardian armor and the size of both men, had decided not to argue with them about closing time. 

Timataal was lying down on a sticky, wooden bench, while Malek, fighting off sleep, was still in his chair with his head and torso resting on the table’s surface. The big man raised his torso up and swiveled his head on his neck from side to side, his vertebrae cracking so loudly that Timataal could hear it several feet away. The morning sun was still several hours from peaking over the horizon and embers were still glowing in the tavern’s hearth. Malek just grunted back in response.

“I don’t remember. What did we finally decide on?” asked the red-head.

“We decided that you can drink about as much as a little school girl now,” murmured Malek. “That and…we’re going after that damn Sword.”

“And why, again, did we decide that? The second one, not the first.”

“For Evangeline.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right. And once we find it? We gonna take it back to Nilfgaard…give it to…well, whoever’s in charge now?”

Malek shook his head. “The only thing that I have waiting for me in Nilfgaard is…probably a noose, certainly not anyone with open arms.”

“Too true,” said Timataal with a laugh. “I’ve never seen a bridge so thoroughly burned as the one between you and Miss Fringilla. So, then…what - we’re just going to use the Sword ourselves? Please tell me you’re not letting your little-shit of a nephew have it.”

“I’m drunk…not stupid.”

“Alright,” said Timataal. “In that case, count me in.” 

And after that, the two finally passed out.

oOo

_Geralt stood on a small hill in the middle of an orchard and turned slowly in a circle while the glorious rays of the sun shone down, illuminating his surroundings. He felt a gentle breeze tickle his skin and whisper in his ears, and the limbs of the fruit trees, covered in blooming white petals, swayed ever so softly. He stopped turning and then looked down the hill to both see and hear the sparkling blue water of a river roll lazily by. He recognized this orchard. It was a sacred place for the witcher. It was where Evie had agreed to be his wife, but he wasn’t sure what he was doing there in that moment. Geralt glanced down and noticed that he was standing on his own two feet. His leg was whole, which confused the witcher even more. And, then, his heart skipped a beat for he’d caught the scent of vanilla in the air._

_The witcher breathed in deeply and closed his eyes, savoring the feelings tied to that scent. As he exhaled slowly, he heard a soft voice from behind say his name. He turned quickly, and his breath caught in his throat. Evie stood before him, wearing the blue dress that she’d worn on their wedding day. She looked radiant and alive, with a kind smile on her face. Geralt wanted to rush towards her and hold her tightly, but he had no idea what was going on, and he didn’t want to do anything that might cause her to vanish. Suddenly, the witcher felt the strangest sensation. A feeling he hadn’t sensed in over nine decades. He felt actual tears welling up in his eyes. Overcome with emotion, he fell to his knees and lowered his head. When he finally looked up at his wife, the tears ran down his cheeks._

_“Forgive me, Evie. Please forgive me. You died because of me. I should have saved you.”_

_Seeing the tears in his eyes, Evie’s faced filled with compassion._

_“Geralt, there’s nothing to forgive. You couldn’t have saved me in the cave. It was simply my time.”_

_His eyes were devouring his wife. “Are…are you a ghost?” he asked with a furrowed brow._

_“No, I’m not a ghost, Geralt.”_

_“Then, what…are you an angel?”_

_Evie smiled a little more widely. “No, I’m not an angel, either. I’m just me. Your Evie.”_

_“Then, I don’t…is this all in my mind?” he asked, staring into her eyes._

_“Yes, Geralt, it is,” she answered. Seeing the pain on his face, she continued, “But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.”_

_The witcher sighed. “Then, I don’t understand, Evie. I don’t understand any of this.”_

_“I know you don’t, but do you trust me, Geralt?” she asked._

_“Of course, baby. Completely.”_

_He couldn’t take his eyes off his wife, and he noticed the breeze was blowing some loose hair across her cheek. She reached up and hooked the strands of hair behind her ear, which brought a small, sad smile to the witcher’s face. But it also stabbed him right in the chest._

_“Then, don’t lose heart, Geralt, for Essea is with you. Trust in him.”_

_The witcher shook his head slightly. “I…I want to, but…how can I? I mean, he had to know how this would all end…that you were going to die in that cave. So, then…why did he ever lead you to find the Sword in the first place?”_

_“That will become clear to you in time. But I can tell you this - death is not the end, Geralt. For us, it’s not a ‘good-bye.’”_

_“Do you promise?”_

_“Yes, baby, I promise.”_

_The witcher exhaled deeply._

_“Okay,” he said, nodding his head. “I trust you, and…I’d like to trust in him. But I’m not going to lie – there’s still a lot of doubt.”_

_“Then, pray to him, Geralt. Pray that he will grant you the faith to believe him, the faith to overcome your doubts.”_

_“And…and if he answers my prayers – if he gives me the faith to trust him – what then?”_

_“Then, continue to do what you’ve been doing since the night I first met you - act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with him.”_

_“Walk with him to where?”_

_“Wherever he leads you…until he finally brings you home.”_

_“Evie…I want to be home with you…now.”_

_She smiled lovingly at Geralt. “I know you do, and one day you will be. But until then, Essea has plans for you. So, trust him, and obey him, even though you don’t understand.” After a pause, she said, “I have to go now. And you still have more days to live, so get up, Geralt.”_

_The witcher continued to stare at his wife. “I don’t wanna get up,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t wanna go through life without you.”_

_“I know. But he will give you his grace to do so – just enough to get through today.”_

_“Great. And tomorrow?”_

_“And tomorrow, he’ll give you just enough again. So, get up, Geralt. Get up.”_

_Evie continued to urge Geralt to rise as she slowly backed away from him. A misty fog suddenly appeared from the river and enveloped her._

_As she started to fade from his view, he swore that he heard her whisper, “I love you, husband.”_

_He swallowed and another tear fell down his cheek. He whispered back, “I love you, too,” just before he woke._

Geralt slowly opened his eyes, and a short, low groan escaped from his throat. He looked up and saw a wooden ceiling above his head. 

“Well, well, Mr. Sleepyhead finally wakes.” A feminine voice came from somewhere nearby. 

He turned his head and saw that he was in a small cabin. Sitting next to him was a gray-haired woman with a wrinkled face and a sparkle in her eyes. 

“Who are you?” he croaked. His mouth didn’t seem to be working very well. 

She smiled widely, showing a missing tooth. 

“Me? Why…I’m the Lady of the Lake.”


	35. Chapter 35

Book 3: The Wolf Dies  
Chapter 3

_The Tir Torchair Mountains_

Geralt squinted his eyes at the old woman sitting next to him.

“I’ve met the Lady of the Lake,” he rasped out. “I’m pretty positive you’re not her.”

The woman’s smile disappeared. “No? Well, that’s what you called me when I pulled you out of the water.” A frown then came to her face. “Huh, that’s disappointing. I kinda liked that name. ‘My lady’ - it’s got a certain…elegant dignity to it, don’t you think?”

The witcher stared at the woman, his brows furrowed. “Did you give me a potion to addle my brain, or are you just crazy?”

Her smile returned. “Crazy like a fox.”

“That’s not the saying. It’s sly…you know what – never mind.” 

With a slight grunt, Geralt lifted his torso up and rested on an elbow. He wasn’t really sure if he could trust his mind in that moment. His recollections from the past several days, including his conversations with both Gaunter O’Dimm and Evie, all seemed a bit hazy. He figured it was due to the delirium brought on from the infection. What was real versus what was a dream or a vision seemed to blur together. However, when he looked down at his blanket-covered body, he saw that the blanket where his lower right leg should be rested flat on the mattress. The reminder that his leg was amputated seemed to suddenly bring his mind into focus, and he clenched his jaw, slightly nodding his head.

“You said you pulled me from the water. I had my wife’s corpse with me. Please tell me you grabbed her, too.”

The woman frowned slightly. “Okay, I’ll tell you that I did.”

Geralt sighed. He could already tell that conversing with this woman for too long would bring on a headache. 

“Did you or did you not grab my wife’s corpse?” 

“Yes, I did. Evie’s over on that table,” said the woman, pointing to the other side of the room. “But I didn’t know she was your wife. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Wait - how do you know her name?”

The woman shrugged. “I just assumed. Her name’s just about the only thing you’ve said for the last three days. When you weren’t moaning in your sleep, you were mumbling her name. So, I put two and two together. As I said, I’m as smart as a chort.”

The witcher simply shook his head and then looked to where she had just pointed. He saw what he assumed to be Evie, but she was no longer wrapped up in the tent fabric that he had used before, up on the mountain. She was covered with a different type of material and looked to be bound up with string in an expert manner. He then looked back at the woman.

“What did you do?”

“Well, no offense, but she was soaked through and starting to smell. As a woman, I can tell you – she probably didn’t like that. So, I stripped her bare, wiped her clean, slathered her in some preservative solution, and wrapped her up back up tightly in some thick material that I treated to be water-resistant. Don’t worry – I was gentle with her.”

The witcher just stared at the strange woman in front of him for a long moment.

“Thank you,” he finally said, looking the woman in the eye and giving a slight nod of his head. “Are you an herbalist or an alchemist?” he asked, pushing his torso up further so that he could lean back against the wall. 

“Oh, I’ve picked things up here and there. At my age, I’ve dabbled in a little bit of everything. I’m just glad that I could be of service. But tell me – how are you feeling?” 

The witcher was quiet for a moment, as if he was listening to his body. He finally nodded his head.

“Actually, not bad,” he answered. “My stump is still sore, but it’s not on fire like before. And my mind seems clear.”

“Well, I’ll be the judge of that.” 

She then bent forward, and before the witcher could object, she quickly ran her tongue across his forehead. 

“Lady, what the hell are you doing?” the witcher asked, wiping away her saliva.

The old woman smiled. “There you go – calling me ‘Lady’ again. And you’re right – your infection is gone. My tongue never lies.”

Geralt, one eyebrow cocked, looked at the grinning woman. 

“Your tongue never lies?”

Then, a thought came to his mind. He lifted the sheets and saw that he was completely naked underneath. 

“You know what – I don’t even want to know how you healed me. Let me just say ‘thank you’ and leave it at that.”

The old woman winked at the witcher. “You’re a wise one, Whiteylocks.”

oOo

Geralt sat at a small table, devouring his second bowl of steaming hot soup. As he was eating, he kept glancing up at the old woman who was sitting on the other side of the room on the lone bed. It was well after sundown so the cabin was quite dark. Only the flames from the hearth’s fire gave off any light. She was mumbling to herself as she busily worked on what looked like two, thick tree branches. 

“Gracie, what are you doing up here - living in the mountains all by yourself?” he asked. 

Earlier, he’d finally convinced her to tell him her real name so that he wouldn’t be forced to call her, “m’lady”. She’d told him that she’d been born Graciella, but no one had ever called her that except her parents – long since dead. 

“I’m not by myself. I’ve got Prickly Pete. He’s great company,” she replied, referring to her donkey.

The witcher gave a slight nod of his head.

“Fair enough. I’ve spent half my life talking to my horse, but that still doesn’t answer my question…what are you doing up here, so far from human civilization?”

At that, Gracie’s hands stopped working and she looked up at Geralt. For the first time since meeting her, he saw a bit of sadness in her eyes.

“For some reason, I just never seemed to fit in down there.”

Geralt nodded and waited, expecting her to say more, but she didn’t. She just stared back at him for the longest time until he finally nodded. She, then, went back to work on the two branches so he went back to the soup. 

A few minutes later, she cheerfully announced, “Tada! All finished!”

“Finished with what?”

“With your gift, Mr. Grumpypants.

“My gift?”

“Yes. I’ve been working on them for three days now – ever since I pulled you out of the water. What do you think?”

She then held the pieces of wood in front of her, standing them up on their ends. Secured to the top of each five-foot tall straight branch was a much-shorter, perpendicular piece that was wrapped tightly with some thick cloth. 

The witcher didn’t say anything. He just stared at the pieces of wood with a small look of disgust on his face. 

“They’re crutches!” remarked Gracie with a big smile.

The witcher shifted his eyes to the old woman. “Yeah, I know what they are.” 

“Huh. You don’t seem pleased. Do you not like the wood that I chose?” 

Geralt sighed. “The wood is fine. Look…I’m grateful, but…witchers aren’t supposed to end up like this.”

“Like what?”

“Crippled,” he said, the contempt clear in his voice. “Witchers are supposed to die on the Path, not end up as…invalids. I had to reconcile myself early on to the fact that I’d probably die young, but…never to this. I mean, who’s ever even heard of a witcher on crutches?”

Gracie shrugged. “‘Supposed to.’ I’ve never been a fan of doing what I was supposed to do, which is good since life rarely turns out the way it’s supposed to anyway. Maybe this means you’re not supposed to be a witcher anymore.”

Geralt stared into her kind eyes. After a bit, he slightly nodded his head and looked back at the crutches in her hand. 

“Yeah. But what does that make me then?” he whispered to himself. 

oOo

Geralt knelt in the dark with his eyes open and his pupils dilated. He glanced briefly at Gracie, who was snoring loudly in the cabin’s one bed, and then stared at the crutches leaning against the table next to him. He had spent the previous hour attempting to meditate but with no success. He’d been hoping that, if he could get back into a restive state, he’d receive another vision from Evie. He so longed to see her and speak with her again – even if it was only in his mind. He also would have loved to have received some kind of message from Essea, but, despite his attempts at meditation, no vision and no message ever came. In fact, he’d had trouble meditating at all for he just couldn’t calm his mind. Since coming out of his three-day coma that morning, emotionally-charged thoughts had been swirling through his mind: regrets over his actions in the cavern; confusion about Essea’s ultimate plans; thoughts of Barcain and his betrayal; worries about Lydial’s safety; and what he would do if he ever faced Malek again. But, perhaps, the most prominent thought was his doubt – doubt over just how he was actually going to accomplish what he needed to do with a missing foot. 

Finally, with a quick glance back in Gracie’s direction, he stood on his one good leg and – with a look of disdain across his face - reached for the crutches, being careful not to make any noise by banging them against each other or the table. The last thing he wanted was for her to wake and see him fumbling around on the damn things.

He tentatively placed the crutches under his arms and then reached down and gripped each shaft. He placed the ends of both of the crutches a couple of feet in front of him and then pushed forward with his left leg. His body swung forward until his left foot came back into contact with the cabin’s hard, dirt floor. As quietly as possible, he began to move around the small table. When he got back to his original position, he nodded his head. It seemed that Gracie had done a fine job of picking solid enough branches to support his weight. He hadn’t felt or even heard any significant strain on the wood. 

He moved to the cabin’s front door and opened it as quietly as possible. He knew that he needed to spend some more time practicing with the crutches, for maneuvering with them still felt incredibly awkward. He headed out into the front yard area of the cabin and began experimenting with the crutches under the full moon. He tested the best way to hold the crutches, just how far out in front of himself he could place them, and just how fast he could move in a straight line with them. Ten minutes later, he placed the crutch under his right arm against a nearby tree, pulled his steel sword, and began swinging the blade right-handed all the while with a crutch under his left arm. Despite his incredible agility, the witcher did lose his balance several times, quietly cursing each time he fell to the ground. After about a half an hour, the muscles throughout his body – but especially in his left leg - were burning like fire so he stopped and rested, kneeling in the grass.

“How the hell am I gonna make it across the Continent on these things?” he asked himself as he cooled down under the moonlight. 

“Very slowly, I imagine,” came Gracie’s voice from behind him. 

He’d been so focused on practicing with the crutches that he hadn’t even noticed that her snoring had stopped or that she was standing at the doorway. 

He turned on his knees to face her. 

“Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t. I just sensed you needed company.”

The witcher shook his head. “That right?”

She nodded. “I saw you swinging your sword.”

“Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “I’m about as skilled as a drunken, seven-year-old.”

“Really? Now you’re just being silly. You know perfectly well a seven-year-old couldn’t even lift a sword that size. He’d be way too little.”

“Right,” said the witcher with a smirk. He then gazed at the small, old woman. 

“Speaking of ‘too little,’” he said. “I haven’t asked you, but how in the world did a little woman like you pull me from that lake. Especially with my armor on, my swords on my back. How was that even possible?”

Gracie smiled. “It is a mystery, isn’t it?”

“It is. Care to enlighten me?”

She didn’t say anything for a long time, just staring at the witcher. Finally, she spoke. 

“Do you believe in miracles, Geralt?”

“Maybe. I guess it depends on how you define ‘miracle.’”

“Simple. An event that the laws of nature nor the laws of magic can’t truly explain.”

Geralt immediately thought back to a few nights past, to the small, glowing butterfly that had flown through the storm and had landed on his hand. He then nodded his head. 

“Yeah…I guess I do.”

“I do, too. I’d like to think that, maybe, there’s a power greater than us. And, maybe, just maybe, it breaks into our world at times – right when we need it the most.”

“And you think that’s what happened in the lake?”

“Do you have a better explanation?”

“Guess not,” he answered with a shake of his head. Then, a small grin came to his face. “Though, it doesn’t explain why you were in the middle of the lake - naked - in the first place.”

“You cheeky bugger – you saw that, did you? Well, I was fishing, obviously.”

Geralt furrowed his brow. “Fishing? Why do you get naked to catch fish?”

“Who said anything about catching them? I just like talking with them.”

“That’s what you call ‘fishing’ – talking to them?”

She answered with a nod and a smile. 

The witcher stared back with a furrowed brow. “Okay, but that still doesn’t explain why you were naked.”

“What – you think it makes more sense to jump into the lake fully clothed? And people call me crazy,” she said, shaking her head.

oOo

“Gracie, I can’t let you do this,” said Geralt. 

He was standing, with the aid of his crutches, in the doorway of her small cabin while she was out in the front yard. Next to her, she had her saddled donkey, and attached to it was a litter carrying Evie’s corpse. 

“And I’m not going to let you tell me what I can or cannot do,” she responded with a smile. 

“Okay. Fair enough. In that case, I won’t accept it.”

“Yes, you will. You accepted the crutches and you’ll accept Prickly Pete. What else are you going to do – crutch yourself and Evie across the continent? Even you’re not that stubborn.”

“I could be.”

Gracie laughed. “Geralt, I can tell you’re a man who doesn’t like to ask for help. Think it’s a sign of weakness, right? Heck, I imagine you’ve probably never even needed to ask for help in the past. But you do need help now. So, please don’t be too pig-headed and proud to take it. Besides, helping you has made me feel useful again. You wouldn’t deprive an old woman of feeling useful, now would you?”

“Fine,” he said with a sigh. “But I’m gonna pay you. You can’t just give away your only donkey.”

Gracie laughed again. “Pay me with what? Everything you own either floated down river or was on the back of your camel, and he’s probably halfway to Zerrikania by now.”

Geralt clenched his jaws and sighed again. Then, after a moment, he unsheathed his silver sword from his back. 

“Then, I’ll pay you with this,” he answered, as the early-morning sunlight reflected off of the silver blade. “You could sell it and buy a dozen donkeys.”

Gracie cocked her head at Geralt and looked at him strangely. “You’re going to give me your silver sword?”

Geralt shrugged. “Why not? I don’t need it anymore. My witcher days are over,” he said, looking her square in the eyes.

The old woman stared at Geralt for several long, silent moments. Finally, she shook her head and spoke. 

“Maybe so, but you’ve still got a long road ahead of you. A road most likely filled with all kinds of nasty creepy-crawlies, and I didn’t save you from drowning just so you could then go off and get killed by…a couple of drowners. Wouldn’t that be ironic? So, no, I’m not taking your sword, Geralt,” she finished.

“Damn it, why is it that every woman I meet is so damn stubborn?”

Gracie smiled. “Just lucky, I guess. Look, if you want to pay me back, then I’ll let you. But – I have a certain payment in mind.”

“I think I’m afraid to ask.”

“It’s simple. The next person that you come across that needs help, simply help them. That’s the only payment I want from you. That’s all. This is a dark and evil world, Geralt. I don’t have to tell you, right? So, let’s just do our best to fight back against the darkness with a little bit of kindness. What do you say?”

The witcher nodded and then sighed. “Alright. I can do that…but it’s gonna end up biting me in the ass. I just know it. It always does.”

“I know, right?” Gracie said with a laugh. “Caring for others always costs us something, doesn’t it? Saving you cost me my donkey.” Then, her eyes went wide and she laughed again. “My ass. Helping you literally cost me my ass.” 

A small smile finally came to Geralt’s face as he shook his head at the crazy woman. 

oOo

Gracie hummed to herself as she moved about her small cabin, putting away vials and containers of various alchemical ingredients that she’d used to heal the witcher’s wounds over the past four days. She’d watched him ride off just a half hour before, and the memory of seeing him on top of the diminutive donkey, his left boot almost touching the ground, brought a smile to her face. Despite her penchant for saying whatever was on her mind, she’d actually decided to keep her thoughts to herself at the time. He had to have known that he looked a bit silly on top of the little burro. He didn’t need her to tell him. Whatever ego the man possessed, she knew that it had taken several damaging blows over the last week, and she wondered just how it all might change him. She also wondered just what the future held for the man, because he had told her where he was headed, and it made her nervous to think about it.

Gracie was suddenly interrupted from her thoughts by a knocking on her front door. She walked over and opened it, confusion on her face upon seeing Geralt standing there on his crutches. 

“Did you forget something?”

He nodded. “I did. I made it down the mountain about ten minutes when I felt my heart being squeezed – as if it was in a rock troll’s grip, and I knew I had to come back.”

“Well, that is worrisome. Best take off your clothes and get back into to bed. I’ll need to listen to your heart and give you a complete once-over.”

Geralt shook his head. “No…it wasn’t literally squeezed. Just – I don’t know – convicted. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I almost left here without…without telling you.”

“Telling me what?”

The witcher paused for a moment, a clearly uncomfortable look on his face. Finally, he sighed and then spoke.

“The power – the power that you think works miracles – I think I know who it is.”

“Do you?” she asked, her smile reaching up to her eyes.

The witcher nodded. “His name is Essea, and I couldn’t live with myself if I left here, having never told you about him.”

“Then, you’d best come on in,” she said, pushing the door the rest of the way open. “You already carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Any more guilt might just snap you in two.”

oOo

_Montecalvo_

“O’Dimm!!!!!” 

Philippa Eilhart – for what must have been the hundredth time - let loose with a rage-filled scream. She glared down at her torso and lower body, and her fury intensified. She looked up at the ceiling of her study and then frantically moved her head and eyes from side-to-side.

“I demand that you face me…you bald, lying…little cheat! I’ll squash you like the worm that you are!” 

The sorceress had been screaming the same insults and threats for over a week but to no avail. O’Dimm had not yet heeded her call.

“Well, well,” she heard a voice coming from behind her. “Someone is in a bit of a snit.”

Philippa immediately spun around, and if looks could kill, the Man of Glass would have been dead on arrival.  
  
“Look at me! Look at what you’ve done!” she screamed. “I’ll show you a ‘snit.’”

In a flash, she spoke a spell and cast her hands forward in O’Dimm’s direction. A red, wave of energy blasted forth from her palms, but half-way to her intended target, O’Dimm snapped his fingers, and the deadly Power stopped in mid-air, as if frozen. Not only was the sorceress’ spell immobilized, Eilhart herself was, as well. 

O’Dimm side-stepped the lethal wave of Chaos in front of him and approached Philippa. He snapped his fingers again, and suddenly her eyes shifted towards him. When he smiled at her, her eyes glared all the more. 

“I so hate to do this to you, Miss Eilhart, but you don’t seem to be in a state where calm, rational dialogue is possible.” 

He then pulled up a chair and slowly sat down, casually crossing one leg over the other. 

“Now…it seems as if you believe that I have breached our contract, but I can assure you – I have never once done so,” he said, craning his neck to look up at the sorceress’ face.

The Merchant of Mirrors then reached behind him and pulled out a scroll, which then miraculously unrolled itself and hung down straight at his side. 

“Let’s see…your exact words were…ah, here we are: ‘Let me live, and let the world recognize my power and fear me as it should.’ There were a few dying gasps interspersed in between your requests, but I didn’t see the point in adding those,” he said with another wide smile. 

Instantly, the scroll rolled up tight, and he then put it away.

“So, Miss Eilhart, as you can see, I did fulfill my part of our contract, and – I must say – in a truly wondrous fashion. You demanded that I look at you. Indeed – just look at you. What a marvelous creature you are. You wanted to live…well, I dare say that you have more vitality and power than you’ve ever possessed. And as far as the world fearing you as it should…” O’Dimm then laughed. “…you shan’t need to ever worry about that again.” 

He then crossed his arms in front of him. 

“Of course, I’ve always tried to be a reasonable merchant. Always give the customers what they want, I say. Got to keep them happy. So, if you’re not satisfied with how I fulfilled your desires, then just say the word, and I’ll return you to the exact condition in which I found you – just a moment from death in that dirty, empty cabin.” Then, the smile left his face. “But make no mistake, Miss Eilhart, you will fulfill your end of the contract regardless of what you choose.” 

O’Dimm’s dark eyes stared right into those of the witch for the longest time, and then finally, he smiled again. 

“So, what say you, Miss Eilhart?” he asked, with a snap of his fingers.

While Philippa’s body remained immobilized, she suddenly had use of her mouth. She glared at O’Dimm, the muscles in her jaws bunched tight. Eventually, she spoke.

“Given the two options, then, obviously I prefer to stay in this condition,” she said in a calm, measured - but venomous - tone

“Ah, I knew you’d be reasonable,” he said with a smile. “And frankly, given that you’re a polymorph, I’m not sure what you’re so upset about. You should be used to living in non-human forms. Plus, just think of all the added benefits of your…new condition. Have you even tried communicating with your new brethren?”

Philippa’s scowl turned into one of slight confusion. 

“No. No, I have not. It didn’t even occur to me.”

“Well, try it. You might be pleasantly surprised,” said O’Dimm. “In time, you’ll see that I’m the best friend you could ever have. I don’t just give people what they want. That’s too simple. Their desires are too small. You want power and control, Miss Eilhart? Well, no one has more than me.”

Suddenly, the sorceress looked at O’Dimm with different eyes, and she gave an almost-imperceptible nod of her head. 

“And to show you that there’s no hard feelings – how about I tell you where you can find one Radovid the Fifth, King of Redania? You have a little score to settle with him, do you not?”

For the first time in weeks, a smile came to Philippa’s face. 

“Indeed, I do.”

oOo

_The Holy City of the Aen Seidhe; 98 Years Post-Conjunction_

Maccarreg paused at the bottom of the hill and looked upwards. Despite it being the middle of the night, there was enough illumination that he could see his older brother’s silhouette at the top of the hill, kneeling down at the foot of the father’s fresh grave. 

The younger brother had gone to bed earlier in the evening totally exhausted. Seeing his father’s health deteriorate the last few months had been the most difficult and emotionally painful experience that he’d ever gone through, but, given that Gaineamh had also been the only prophet and priest of the Aen Seidhe for the last one thousand years, it had been trying times for the nation as a whole, as well. Once Gaineamh’s health began to decline, there had been numerous discussions – both within the city and without - as to whom his successor would be. To Maccarreg, it seemed as if half the families in the Holy City had put forward a candidate to be the nation’s mediator with Essea. But it had been the leaders of the other three city-states in the south that had been the most vocal in their desire to rule the elven nation. All of this debate took place despite Gaineamh’s decree that his eldest son, Taibhsear, would succeed him in the role of prophet and priest. Eventually, to placate all parties, it was decided that Essea, himself, would decide. Just a week ago, lots were cast, and just as his father had decreed, the lot fell to Taibhsear. 

The entire, contentious dispute seemed to drain Gaineamh of his last vestige of life for he died a short time later, and in the few days since, the two brothers had been in the center of a storm of activity. Given their father’s stature, a private, family burial of the body would not suffice. A public funeral was also offered to the thousands of Aen Seidhe who wanted to pay their respects. Of course, before that could take place, other official ceremonies had to occur – specifically, anointing Taibhsear as the latest prophet, priest, and judge of the elven nation. 

Maccarreg’s older brother had seemed to handle all the pomp-and-circumstance better than he had. The younger sibling wasn’t one who relished the politics and ceremony typical of the priesthood. He was a military elf - a career soldier who, while quite skilled with both his mind and tongue, was even more so with his blade. And it now looked like he was finally going to get the chance to use that skill.

While Maccarreg may have gone to bed both physically and emotionally exhausted, as he stood at the base of the hill, he felt more alive than he had in years, and he strode with purpose upwards, toward his brother. As he ascended, his mind replayed a conversation that he’d had with his father. It was a conversation that they’d had several hundred times in the last century. 

Ever since the Conjunction of the Spheres, a devastating civil war had been going on amongst the eight Aen Seidhe city-states in the northern area of the continent, and there was no secret as to the cause of the war. Whoever possessed the Sword of Destruction – the name given to Apophis’ weapon decades ago – had an inexplicable desire to kill his neighboring elves. Many times, the wielder of the Sword would even turn on his own city-state, killing hundreds and thousands of his own soldiers and citizens. And it didn’t matter how peace-loving the elf was prior to holding the blade. Once the Sword fell into his grasp, he suddenly had nothing but death and destruction on his mind – hence, the origin of the weapon’s moniker. 

The elves of the south knew without a doubt that the Sword was possessed by some type of evil force. How exactly this force influenced the Sword’s ‘owner,’ Maccarreg didn’t know, but there was no denying that it changed its wielder in physical, mental, and emotional ways. Over the last one hundred years, more times than not, the Sword’s master would become so mentally unstable that they’d commit suicide before ever being actually defeated by an outside foe. Then, the Sword would be picked up by another elf, and the war would simply continue, just with someone new leading the carnage. For decades, Maccarreg had routinely asked his father, Gaineamh, permission to head north in order to capture the Sword of Destruction and destroy it once-for-all.

“This is Essea’s hand,” had always been Gaineamh’s answer. “They are all reaping what they have sown. Our Lord is discipling the northern Aen Seidhe for turning from him. He is purging them of those who worship false gods.”

“Maybe so, Father,” Maccarreg had always replied, “but the purge is just about complete. There are hardly any Aen Seidhe left in the north, and, eventually, whoever has the Sword will head south for us. They’ve got to be stopped before they get here.” 

“That may be, my son, but it will have to be done in Essea’s time. I’ve sought his will in this matter repeatedly, and he has, as of yet, never given his blessing for the mission you seek. Maccarreg, you are an elf of action so I know this is frustrating for you, but please heed my warning. If you go against our God’s will in this, you will fail. For there is no wisdom, no insight, and no strategy that can succeed against the Lord’s sovereign plan. But, if you wait for his timing, if you are in line with his will, then nothing will be able stop you, for God’s purpose always prevails.”

Those words from his father were in his mind as Maccarreg reached the summit of the small hill that was outside of the city’s walls. He paused for a moment to look at the back of his brother, still kneeling beside their father’s grave.

“I knew you’d be up here,” he said, stepping closer to his sibling.

“And I knew you’d come,” Taibhsear retorted. “Let me guess, now that Father is dead, you want my blessing to go north.” 

He then turned around and stood facing Maccarreg.

“Yes…and no,” answered the soldier. “As my earthly leader, I’d like your blessing. As hard as it may be for me to submit to my older brother’s authority, I will always do my best to do so.”

Taibhsear smiled and nodded. “However?” he asked.

“However, there’s a higher authority than you. Tonight, an angel of Essea came to me. He instructed me to capture the Sword.”

Taibhsear said nothing for the longest time, simply staring at his younger sibling.

“If this was anyone else but you, then I’d question this vision. It seems pretty convenient, given that this is what you’ve wanted to do for the last century.”

Maccarreg gave a small smile. “I don’t blame you. I’d be suspicious, too. But, luckily, you do know me.”

“Yes, I know you’d never fabricate receiving a message from Essea,” Taibhsear said with a nod. “When do you plan to leave?”

“Tomorrow. My men are ready. Essea knows I’ve been preparing them for this day for years.”

The elder sibling nodded again. “Did this message from God specify that you are to go alone – just you and your men?”

Maccarreg immediately furrowed his brow and squinted had his brother. 

“No,” he finally stated. “No, it did not. Why do you ask?”

“In that case, you are to take elves with you from each of our three, neighboring city-states here in the south.”

“Brother, please tell me you’re jesting,” the soldier said with a shake of his head. “You actually want me to take along the same elves that tried to deny you your rightful place as prophet and priest? I know these elves, Taibhsear. And you do, too. You know they can’t be trusted. They may not be in the middle of the civil war, but they have turned their backs on Essea just as much as any of the city-states in the north. Their worship of God is purely lip service. They have no true love for him. They offer nothing but cold, external, religious practices, and even then - only when it’s required. The rest of the time, they live however they see fit.”

“I agree, Maccarreg. And it’s for that reason that we can’t simply wash our hands of them. They are still our brothers, and we need to bring them back into the fold. The only way we can do that is to maintain our alliances with them. If we cut ourselves off, then they’ll never care one whit what we have to say to them. We’ll never have any kind of positive influence.”

“Brother, they already don’t care one bit what we have to say. Father spent the last century pleading with them. Begging them to genuinely repent, to return to a loving relationship with Essea, but our words mean nothing to them.” 

“I couldn’t agree more, and that’s why we have to persuade them with our actions. We have to continue to pursue them. Maccarreg, you have been blessed. Tonight, you received an actual message from God. And, now, we have the chance to invite our brothers who have strayed to be a part of this – to be a part of Essea’s sovereign plan. You’re right - we have every right and reason to exclude them, but…just think what it would show them if we choose to include them anyway.”

The younger brother just stared at the elder and shook his head, his thoughts clearly on his face.

“Plus, you’re going to need all the help you can get.” 

“I’ve got Essea on my side,” said Maccarreg. “That’s all I need.”

“Yes, that’s true, but don’t forsake the means by which he helps us. Essea has given you neighbors that can aid you. I’ve been praying about this for months – ever since Father took ill. I knew you’d be coming to me with this. And while I have received no direct word from God on this matter, I still feel that bringing soldiers from the other city-states is the correct course of action.”

Maccarreg exhaled deeply. “So be it. If this is your instruction, then I will submit. But just so you know, I don’t plan on fighting for the Sword head on. We won’t acquire it ‘fairly.’ Surprise will be the key. Me and my soldiers…we’re as silent as the midnight breeze. So, I’ll take these other soldiers, but I am in charge. I will decide how to best use them.” 

Taibhsear nodded and smiled. “Brother, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’d never tell you how to fight a battle. That’s your area of expertise. Just…promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Do your best to come home.”

Maccarreg smiled back. 

“Hey, it’s me. Besides, as father always said, ‘If Essea be for us, then who can be against us?’”

oOo

_Maecht_

There was a little caravan of five mounted riders heading north. Timataal and Aarian – the only other of Malek’s men left alive - led the way, with Barcain riding by himself a yard or two behind them. Bringing up the rear – and completely out of ear-shot from the rest - were Malek and Lydial, riding side-by-side. 

That morning, the full-blood Aen Seidhe had informed them all that she’d found verses within the Essean scrolls indicating that the last known location of the Sword of Destruction was in the far north of the Continent – most likely in the now-named Dragon Mountains. 

“That’s it? That’s all it says? That it’s somewhere in the Dragon Mountains?” Timataal had asked. “Granted, that’s more than we knew yesterday, but that mountain range spans the entire continent from the east to the west. We could spend a dozen lifetimes up there and still never find it. You sure there’s nothing more specific?”

“Nothing yet,” Lydial had answered. “But I’ll keep searching.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Barcain with a confident smile. “Essea will show us the way. ‘Ask and ye shall receive,’ right, Nain?” 

There was then a short debate on the best way to travel, but eventually, it was decided by all that horse-back would suffice. If needed, they could always change their minds later and head west for the coast to find a ship sailing north.

“I know he’s your grandson, but why are you helping him?” asked Malek in a quiet voice as their horses walked slowly along the trail. 

Lydial glanced quickly at the large man out of the corner of her eye and then straight ahead again towards the path in front of them. She immediately thought of the innocent lives up in Dol Blathanna and the threat that Barcain had made. She didn’t actually know if he had the ability to follow through with that threat, but she had no doubt that he would try if she failed to assist him. That was something on which she wasn’t willing to take a chance.

“None of your business,” she stated in a neutral tone.

Malek nodded. “Fair enough. I wouldn’t trust me either.”

“And just why should I? You killed my granddaughter.”

“True, but it was an accident. I was actually trying to save her.” 

“Really? Then do me a favor – don’t ever try to save me.”

Malek sighed deeply. “I know you’re upset, and you have every right to be, but I promise you – no one feels worse about Evangeline’s death than I do. I’ll have to live with the knowledge that I killed her for the rest of my life.”

Lydial glanced at Malek again. “Just why are you helping him?” she whispered.

“I think you’re mistaken on just who is helping whom. He was spying for me, remember?”

“Right…he was. I’ve heard you and your friends talking. I know that you’re…persona non grata with the Empire these days. So, let me guess, you just want the Sword for yourself now.”

“Oh, you’re damn right that I want to find that Sword. But not for myself,” Malek said, shaking his head. “Not for myself.”

oOo

_Nilfgaard_

Fringilla sat alone in her quarters within the luxurious mansion of the Vigo estate. She was feeling incredibly melancholy, and she wasn’t sure why. Today should have been a day of rejoicing. Her cousin, Donato, had been crowned the newest ruler of the empire. It actually hadn’t taken much to usurp Emhyr’s throne given that he hadn’t been seen or heard from in over two months. In fact, what was left of the Nilfgaardian spy network throughout the north could find not hide nor hair of him. 

Rumors abounded, of course. Some said he’d died heroically, attacking Radovid’s palace in Tretogor. Others said he’d turned coward and fled during the invasion of Redania. Some said he’d been killed by strange, never-before-seen magical creatures rampaging through the north. A few – those who knew Emhyr best – didn’t believe any of that scuttlebutt. The man had ruled the Nilfgaardian Empire for over two decades and had survived countless coups and battles. They viewed him like a cockroach – nearly unkillable. He might be off hiding in some foreign land now, licking his wounds, but they had no doubt that he’d return to the capital city one day to reclaim his throne. But, until then, the wheel would keep turning. The empire was like a twenty-ton boulder rolling downhill. It’d keep tumbling along regardless of who claimed to be in charge. 

The sorceress thought back to that day’s activities. The coronation had not been an overly, extravagant affair – at least, as far as coronations go. 

“We are still dealing with the deaths of thousands of our young men in the north. Too festive of an event would be in poor taste at the moment,” Donato had said two weeks prior. “The crown needs to be seen as being sensitive to the plight of our common folk. They are the mules of the empire, after all.”

Therefore, the subdued and reserved coronation only had guests numbering in the hundreds instead of the thousands and only lasted three days instead of the customary seven. 

As one of the newly-crowned emperor’s closest relatives, as a powerful sorceress, and as the soon-to-be duchess of Toussaint, Fringilla had no shortage of admirers and sycophants. But despite being constantly surrounded for the last three days, she’d still felt utterly alone. She was amazed at how that could be. 

She rose from where she was lying on her chaise-lounge and pulled her silk robe tightly around her. She walked into her bed chambers and stopped in front of her dresser, on top of which sat a large porcelain bowl filled with clean water. She took the bowl from the dresser and set it on a nearby table. She knew that what she was about to do was not healthy, but she didn’t care. She recognized that she was borderline obsessing, but she didn’t know how to stop. The sorceress waved her arms in an intricate fashion and began speaking a spell in the Elder tongue. Suddenly, an image appeared within the water. And not just an image but sounds, as well. She inhaled deeply and, subconsciously, held her breath for a moment. 

After several minutes of staring at and listening to the image, she suddenly felt disgusted with herself. She wasn’t sure with whom she was angrier – him or herself. With a wave of her hand, the image disappeared, leaving nothing but the still, clear water in the bowl. 

Fringilla walked slowly to her bed and slipped under the covers, but sleep would not come. For every time she closed her eyes, she saw the same thing – the face and voice of Malek VanderBosch. 


	36. Chapter 36

Book 3: The Wolf Dies  
Chapter 4

_The Nilfgaardian Province of Metinna_

Malek looked over his shoulder to check on Lydial. She was riding alone at the back of the group as they made their way over a vast, grassy plain. The five of them had been riding north for several weeks now, and Malek was still surprised that she’d not tried to escape once. She’d had plenty of opportunities, especially at night when they all slept around their make-shift camp site. Yet, every morning, when they woke, she was still there. He knew in his heart that Barcain had threatened her somehow, even if she refused to admit it.

He gently pulled back on his reins to slow his horse until he was finally riding side-by-side with the she-elf, and the two of them rode in silence for a while. Lydial wondered what he wanted but not enough to care to ask. Eventually, the big man spoke.

“Can I ask you for a favor?”

Lydial looked at him suspiciously. “What is it?”

“Would you tell me about your daughter?”

The Aen Seidhe now looked confused. “Hannamiel? Why? Why do you want to know about her?”

“Well, I got to know her a bit over the years. I never had kids of my own so…I tried to visit Evangeline and the boys as much as I could. Be the best uncle that I could be. During my visits, she and I talked some, and…I liked her. She was one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, but…she also always seemed a little sad. So, I just wondered what she was like growing up. Was she always like that?”

Lydial didn’t say anything. She looked into Malek’s eyes and, after a bit, gave a small shake of her head.

“You know what - I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business, and I know I’m not your favorite person.”

Lydial didn’t respond. She stared up into the blue, afternoon sky as if she was lost in thought. 

Just as Malek was about to ride ahead and leave her to her own thoughts, she spoke up.

“No. She wasn’t always sad. In fact, she was the happiest baby I’ve ever been around. And, oh, did she love her daddy,” Lydial said with a smile. “When she was a baby, Dilis would bounce her on his knee for hours. And, then, when she got a year or two older, she was always riding him around the house like a horse. Later on, Dilis got her a pony. She must have ridden that little mare all over Dol Blathanna.”

“Angel Eyes,” Malek whispered. 

Lydial turned her head towards him, sporting a look of surprise and confusion.

“That’s right. How do you know her name?”

Malek shook his head. “I…I guess she told me once.”

Lydial didn’t say anything, just waiting to see if he would continue.

“Whenever I visited, she’d sometimes ask me if she could ride my horse,” he said. “And he was a monster. A giant warhorse that dwarfed even this stallion I’m on now. The first time she asked, I was terrified for her – afraid she couldn’t handle him. But she took off like...a shooting star. She could ride better than me.”

Lydial saw him smiling at the memory.

“That may have been the first time I ever truly heard her laugh.” 

He then looked over at Lydial, who was nodding her head, with a sad smile on her face. 

“As she got older, she…well, she didn’t have the best childhood…though, it was through no fault of her own,” remarked Lydial. “There were circumstances that caused others in our community to treat her cruelly, and that changed her…regardless of how much Dilis and I assured her that we loved her, assured her that Essea loved her. She became depressed. She questioned her worth. At one point, Dilis and I even contemplated leaving Dol Blathanna. But where were we to go? Elf persecution was rampant at the time – as it always has been. The only time she seemed truly happy was when she was riding Angel Eyes. She’d ride up into the mountains and be gone for hours. I think that was her way to escape.”

“Was that why she married Holsted, so she could escape from Dol Blathanna?” asked Malek. “I mean, it couldn’t have been for love, right? I saw the two of them together.”

Lydial glanced at Malek but then quickly looked away. But he’d seen the uncomfortable look on her face.

“He was your cousin. I don’t want to…”

“Hey, there’s nothing you could say that would offend me. I lived with him for a few years when we were teenagers. I know what he was like. He wasn’t just socially awkward. There was something truly…not-quite right with him. It was like he couldn’t connect with people…or didn’t want to.”

Lydial nodded. “I thought the same thing. He was always respectful, but I always got the feeling he looked at me like I was a thing instead of an elf.” 

“Yeah, well…I hope you didn’t take it personally. He was like that with everyone.”

“I wanted Hannamiel to marry for love. And she said that she was in love with him, but I didn’t believe it. As you said, I believe she was just looking for a way out of our community, and Holsted was it.” Lydial then sighed deeply. “There were so many times I wished that she could have found someone who would’ve loved her like her father loved me.”

“Yeah,” said Malek softly. “That’s probably what she wanted to.”

He then turned his head to look at Lydial. “It’s a shame we rarely get what we want in life.”

Lydial didn’t say anything. She just looked at Malek and then slowly nodded.

oOo

_The Nilfgaardian Province of Geso_

After riding down out of the Tir Torchair Mountains, it had taken Geralt and Prickly Pete almost two weeks to travel through Gemmera and Maecht on their way north. The little donkey was slow but never seemed to tire. After crossing the bridge at the Velda River – the natural southern boundary between Geso and Maecht – the witcher veered off the main north-south highway. Just as he had done on the entirety of the trip so far, his plan was to avoid every village and town. He had absolutely no idea how people would react to the sight of an amputee witcher riding a burro and pulling a corpse, and he didn’t want to know. Just to be safe, he’d even taken the swords off his back and secured them to the saddle. If he’d still had his cloak with him, he would’ve worn his cowl up, as well. 

For the past several days, Geralt and his companion had slowly made their way through the Geso countryside. That decision had proved to be doubly-beneficial. The lush, prairie land provided Prickly Pete with plenty to eat, and it also allowed the witcher to replenish some of his alchemical supplies. Whenever Geralt stopped to allow his donkey to rest and graze, he’d grab his crutches and go off in search of various plants and herbs – honeysuckle, celandine, and the like. 

As the two of them crested a small hill, Geralt suddenly pulled up on his reins. Buzzards were flying high in the early morning sky about a quarter mile away. They looked to be circling right above where he knew the east-west trail ran between the towns of Amarillo and Druigh. That didn’t bode well. He had wanted to pass between the two towns in that exact spot, but the buzzards’ presence could only mean that something – or someone – was dead on the trail. And, typically, wherever there was prey, there were also monsters – of one type or another. The witcher stared up at the birds in the sky for a moment longer before finally turning in the saddle and looking down at Evie’s corpse tied to the litter. 

Eventually, he faced forward again and gave a slow shake of his head. “We don’t have time for this.”

He turned his donkey eastward and snapped his reins. “We’ll go around whatever it is.” 

He’d only traveled ten or fifteen yards when he pulled back on the reins again, halting his mount. He let out an exasperated sigh and then sat there simply shaking his head. He couldn’t stop thinking about Gracie’s words. He remembered his promise to her – to simply help whomever needed it. He knew he owed it to her to see what was down below. 

“Damn it,” he said under his breath. Then, he gave Prickly Pete a slight nudge to continue down the hill. 

A few minutes later, the witcher stopped his donkey again when he picked up the sounds of some type of beast. He couldn’t see what was ahead due to trees and shrubs obscuring his line of sight, but to the monster-slayer’s ears, it sounded as if ghouls or alghouls were nearby. Geralt dismounted Prickly Pete, donned his swords across his back, and began to slowly crawl on his hands and knees towards the growling and other guttural sounds. After coming to the edge of some brush, he finally got a look at the scene ahead. A merchant’s wagon was on the side of the road. The ox that had been pulling the wagon was dead, lying in its own pool of blood, and two ghouls were busily gnawing on the large carcass. Geralt let his senses take over, carefully assessing the situation. In addition to the ghouls, the witcher picked up another presence. This one coming from inside the wagon. It sounded like someone was speaking in the Nilfgaardian tongue. 

The witcher looked upward, toward the heavens. “Really, God? Nilfgaardians? Of all the people I have to save…” he thought to himself.

As he looked back at the ghouls, the witcher sighed and shook his head. He had one leg and no bombs. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to do.

“Okay, Gracie, after this, we’re even.”

Geralt crawled out from the bushes’ concealment, stood on his left leg, and then quickly began hopping toward the wagon. Right before he made it to the front of the wagon, the ghouls noticed him, and they turned, let out gruesome howls, and prepared to attack. Instantly, the monster-slayer cast an Igni at both creatures, and while their bodies burned and their howls intensified, he pulled himself up onto the carriage seat of the wagon. Several feet above the ground, he could now fight from a position of safety.

The two monsters – their bodies no longer aflame but still smoking - attacked the wagon. They repeatedly swiped their sharp claws upward at the witcher, but he was too far out of reach. They were not out of his though, and he began casting both Igni and Blyx at the two foul creatures. Using both hands, he alternately burned and shocked the two ghouls, their cries of agony filling the morning air. Though his witcher Signs kept the monsters from actually getting close enough to him to draw blood, the ghouls still frantically lunged their bodies towards him, slamming against the wagon. At one point, the wagon was jostled so much that the witcher lost his balance, falling back onto the seat. Instead of bothering to stand back up, the monster-slayer made the split-decision to simply stay seated and continued to blast the two ghouls with lightning and streams of fire. 

Very quickly, the battle was over, and as Geralt looked at the two smoking, loathsome-smelling carcasses on the ground, he realized that he couldn’t remember, in his eight-plus decades on the Path, of ever fighting off monsters without his sword or from the seated position. He shook his head as he wondered just what Vesemir would have said at seeing the ridiculous display.

“Yeah, I know,” the witcher said to himself. “That’s not how you taught me to fight.”

That realization brought home to Geralt, once again, that he was probably no longer qualified to be an actual witcher anymore. He sighed, shook his head again, and then he hopped off the wagon and expertly removed both ghouls’ heads just to be safe. Maybe he wasn’t a witcher any longer, but that practice was still deeply ingrained in him. He then moved to the back of the wagon, where he saw that its back door was barely hanging on its hinges. 

“Open up,” he called out. “It’s safe now.”

The damaged door slowly opened to reveal a young man, and the witcher guessed him to be around thirteen or fourteen years of age. Geralt quickly glanced past the boy to look inside the wagon, and he noticed two things. The wagon looked like it had been ransacked, and there was an elderly gentleman – either unconscious or dead – sporting a bloody wound on his bald pate. 

“You killed the monsters?” the boy asked.

Geralt squinted his eyes, peering closely at the lad. He easily detected the boy’s thick, Nilfgaardian accent just from the short question. 

“I did,” he answered. “What the hell are you doing in Geso, kid? This is a long way from Nilfgaard.” 

Geso, like all the territories of the south, was a province of the Nilfgaardian Empire, and the Black Ones’ invasion of the land had been particularly brutal. In that war, many atrocities had been committed by both sides. And even though Geso had been under Nilfgaardian control for a couple of decades, the citizens of the province hadn’t forgotten. They still carried much animosity in their hearts for their conquerors to the south.   
  
“Oma and I were traveling for Sarda. The tailor there recently passed, and the commander of the city commissioned Oma to take his place. He is the best tailor in all the south so the citizens sent us a large retainer for our traveling expenses with a promise of more once we arrived.”

The witcher nodded in understanding. Sarda was the home of a Nilfgaardian outpost housing a medium-sized garrison, and it was probably the only place in Geso where Nilfgaardians weren’t treated with open hostility. Over the years, the fort had gradually grown into a rather large town as merchants arrived to sell the many soldiers their wares. It seemed that despite their hatred for the Black Ones, Gesoan businessmen were still willing to trade with them. Geralt didn’t hold it against them, though. In fact, it would have been hypocritical of him to do so for, while he didn’t care for Nilfgaardians either, he’d still accept a contract from them on occasion, too. As the witcher had said on occasion – if he only took contracts from people that he liked and respected, then he’d never work.

“What exactly happened here, kid?”

“Bandits, sir. They stole all of our money and our two horses and killed our ox. When Oma fought back, they hit him on the head. And then, later, those monsters showed up.”

Geralt nodded. “Yeah, the smell of blood attracts them. Alright, kid, move aside. I’ll see what I can do for your gramps,” he said, climbing into the back of the wagon. The witcher knew that “Oma” was what some Nilfgaardians called their grandfathers.

“Do you mean that you will actually help?” The lad sounded surprised.

“I’ll try,” Geralt said as he knelt by the old man’s body.

“Oh, praise the Great Sun. You’re the only one.”

Geralt turned to look at the boy. “What do you mean ‘the only one?’”

“Three others stopped yesterday – before the monsters showed up - but as soon as they discovered that we are from Nilfgaard, they spit on the ground, cursed us, and left.”

The witcher gave a slight nod. “Not real neighborly…but not surprising either. Sure you want to live in Geso?”

“Right now, I just want my Oma to live.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The witcher quickly went about tending to the man’s wounds, carefully applying a poultice of yarrow leaves, aniseed and birchbark. Then, after taking some time to brew up a safe-for-humans healing potion, he coaxed it down his patient’s throat. His care allowed the grandfather, whose name was Rojen, to regain consciousness. However, he was still incredibly weak so, after Geralt gently placed him on the back of Prickly Pete, he then tied him tightly to the saddle and to the stirrups so that he wouldn’t fall off if he lost consciousness. Geralt had briefly considered harnessing his donkey to the wagon but quickly dismissed the idea. There was no way the little burro could pull something that size. After telling the boy to grab only the essentials from their wagon, Geralt – on crutches - led the motley crew down the road towards the town of Amarillo. It was the closest town and also happened to be on the way to Sarda. 

“So, tell me about these bandits,” said the witcher as they slowly headed east along the trail. 

He had addressed Drazen, the boy, who was walking alongside the donkey. One of his hands was gripped tightly to the back of his grandfather’s shirt to stabilize him.

Well,” replied the lad, “we shared a table with three men at the tavern in Druigh. While we broke our fast, we all conversed, and Oma told them of our journey. That we were moving to Sarda for a fresh start after my grandmother’s death. They informed us of the dangers of traveling the roads of Geso, and they offered to ride with us on our way as safety. Obviously, it was a ruse, for a few hours later, they pillaged our goods and stole all our coin and horses.” 

“Did you see which way they rode off?”

“No, by the time they left, I was inside of the wagon, trying to care for Oma,” replied Drazen. Then, his jaws clenched. “But we rode with them all morning. I’ll never forget their faces.” 

Geralt nodded. “I imagine not.”

Throughout the rest of the day, the three of them kept up a steady conversation. Normally, that may have annoyed the witcher, who, traditionally, wasn’t keen on meaningless chit-chat with strangers. However, since he knew they had many hours until they reached Amarillo, he was actually okay with the small-talk as it helped pass the time. At one point, Rojen brought up the Great Sun. It didn’t surprise Geralt to hear that both Rojen and Drazen were followers of that deity as it was the official state religion of the Nilfgaardian Empire. Once again, as he had with Gracie, he felt something inside of him, compelling him to tell them of Essea, but, while both were respectfully quiet and attentive during his discourse, neither of them seemed particularly interested in the subject. Despite that, afterwards, his heart and mind felt at ease, which struck the witcher as strange. Geralt assumed that it was Essea who had compelled him to speak of his existence in the first place, but why would Essea put that urge on Geralt’s heart if neither Rojen nor Drazen were going to be receptive to it? As God – a supposedly omniscient being - Essea had to have known that the conversation would end up bearing no fruit. So, then, what was the point – thought Geralt. It was just one more confusing aspect about Essea that Geralt didn’t understand. 

Over the course of the morning and afternoon, the three continued to converse about a variety of topics. They also came across a handful of travelers along the road. Seeing a white-haired man on crutches with a donkey hauling a corpse seemed to get everyone’s attention. However, just as Drazen and Rojen had experienced the previous day, once the travelers discovered that the two hailed from Nilfgaard, all friendliness and offers of aid quickly evaporated, and the three were left to, once again, fend for themselves. Therefore, when Geralt and his companions finally made it to the outskirts of Amarillo, the sun was just starting to set. 

The witcher couldn’t remember the last time his muscles ached so much. He figured that he must have crutched himself over twenty miles since that morning. He really wanted a hot meal followed by a hotter bath. Amarillo wasn’t much more than a village so it didn’t take long for them to find the one inn. 

As Geralt helped Drazen lift a still-weak Rojen from the back of the donkey, the teenager said, “Geralt, we don’t have a single floren on us.”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry - I’ve got you covered,” he assured the boy. “Look, why don’t you two stay out here. Watch after Prickly Pete, okay?”

“Sure, Geralt,” said the lad.

While it was true that he wanted the boy to look after his donkey and Evie’s corpse, the deeper truth was that he also didn’t want the innkeeper to hear Drazen or Rojen’s accents. Geralt had no doubt that the inn would suddenly have no rooms available if the inn’s owner discovered that they hailed from Nilfgaard. 

The witcher entered the inn and approached the inn-keep behind a counter. 

“I’d like a room for the night,” he stated. “And a hot bath.” 

The man eyed Geralt carefully. “Twenty florens.”

“That much?”

“Don’t like it, then move on down the road.”

Geralt nodded, and after looking inside of his money pouch, a grimace came to his face. All he had left were two Novigradian crowns and four florens. The single room would almost wipe him out. He had known that helping these two was somehow going to bite him in the ass. But, then, his eye caught the four florens that were also resting in the pouch – the four florens that Gracie had given him. The last four florens that she’d possessed. He thought again of all she’d done for him even though he hadn’t deserved it. And thinking of her mercy and undeserved favor immediately brought the story of King Altachadh and his son to mind, which then reminded him of Essea. So, he sighed, nodded his head, and looked at the inn-keep.

“Two Novigradian crowns should cover it, right?” the witcher asked.

“Depends. If they haven’t been shaved down.” 

Geralt placed the two coins on the counter, and luckily, they passed inspection. 

Twenty minutes later, Prickly Pete was eating hay in a stall of the inn’s corral, Rojen was passed out on the solitary bed in their small room, and Evie’s corpse lay on the floor next to him. Geralt and Drazen were heading towards the inn’s dining area to grab a bite before taking something back to the room for Rojen. 

As they walked through the door, Geralt heard Drazen from behind him.

“Geralt,” the boy hissed. 

When the witcher pivoted around, he saw that Drazen had also turned around, his back now to the diners in the tavern. 

Once Geralt moved up next to him, Drazen turned his head and whispered, “It’s them. The men who robbed us.”

“Where?”

“See the four men playing cards? I don’t know the one in the yellow doublet, but the other three – that’s them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” 

With that, Drazen turned and took a step in the men’s direction. Geralt reached out and grasped his arm.

“Whoa, kid. Where do you think you’re going?” he whispered.

“To demand our money and possessions back,” Drazen replied, looking up at the witcher, staring him in the eye.

“Come with me,” demanded the witcher, still holding the teenager’s arm in a vice grip.

Eventually, the lad nodded and they both moved into the hall just outside the dining area. 

“Do you actually think they’re just gonna hand your money over because you demand it? You were lucky they didn’t kill you the first time.”

“So, I’m just supposed to do nothing? Just forget about what they did?” 

“No. I’m not saying forget about it. But confronting them by yourself is suicide. There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity, kid. Look, once you get to Sarda, tell the commander of the Nilfgaardian garrison. Let them hunt these three down.”

“What they did was wrong,” the lad said with steel in his voice. “They should be brought to justice.” At that, he lifted his shirt to show Geralt the knife he had hidden underneath.

The witcher sighed. “I agree, Drazen, but I highly doubt that you’re going to be the one to give it to them. You really think you can defeat those three with nothing but a knife?”

The vigor suddenly seemed to go out of the lad. He looked up at the witcher. 

“No…but you could.”

Geralt slowly shook his head. “Acting out of vengeance never turns out well. It will only lead you into darkness. Trust me on this.”

“So, the man who killed your wife – if you ever find him, you’re just going to – what – give him a tongue-lashing? Why do you even carry those swords with you then?”

The witcher stared into the young man’s angry eyes for the longest time. When he finally spoke, his voice was low – almost a whisper.

“I don’t rightly know what I’m going to do if I ever find him, but I know this – my wife is dead because I chose vengeance. I was so consumed by anger that I walked away from the love of my life as she lay dying at my feet. So…I will never kill out of anger or for revenge ever again. Do you understand me?”

Drazen’s eyes never faltered, and he nodded his head.

“Fine, but you wouldn’t have to act out of vengeance. I’ve got enough anger for both of us. All I’m asking you to do is act out of justice. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Suddenly, Evie’s words from the vision came to Geralt’s mind. She had encouraged him to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with Essea until he was finally taken home. The witcher didn’t know exactly where confronting these three bandits fell into all of that, but he knew he couldn’t let Drazen face them alone. 

Geralt nodded at the teenager. 

“Okay, I’ll go with you when you confront them, but let’s compromise.”

“What do you mean?” Drazen asked suspiciously.

“We find the local alderman or constable first and have him there with us, too. Maybe justice can be served without anyone actually having to die.”

“Fine,” agreed Drazen, but he didn’t look happy.

The two quickly approached the innkeeper and inquired as to the whereabouts of Amarillo’s alderman. 

“Well, you’re in luck. He’s right here in the tavern. I think he’s drinking and playing cards with his cousins.”

The witcher sighed. “Of course, he is. This just keeps getting better and better,”  
he said to himself, shaking his head. “What’s his name?” 

“Mylam. Alderman Bern Mylam.”

Geralt turned to Drazen. “Okay, let’s go talk to the alderman.”

“But he’s their kin. He’s not going to do anything to them.”

“Let’s just give him a chance, alright?”

After the teenager nodded in assent, they headed back into the dining area, Geralt leading the way towards the table with Drazen a step behind. A voice in the witcher’s head kept repeating, “Stay calm,” over and over.

The witcher’s crutches made a noticeable “thumping” sound on the wooden floor of the tavern, and that, along with his presence, caused the laughter and conversation to cease as he approached the four men. Their table was near a window that was facing the west, the last rays of the day’s sunlight still shining through. 

“Drazen,” said Geralt, facing the four men, after coming to a stop in between the table and the window. He and the teenager were slightly backlit by the twilight. “Are you sure it’s them?”

“Without a doubt. The one in the middle is wearing my grandmother’s gold pendant around his neck.”

“Well, well, the Nilfgaard scum,” said Clem, the man with the pendant. He then turned his head to address the alderman in the yellow doublet. “This is the piece of shit’s spawn, Bern.”

“You Alderman Mylam?” asked Geralt to the man in yellow.

“Aye. Watcha need?” he said, his eyes quickly scanning Geralt’s crutches and stump of a leg.

“This lad claims that these three men that you’re sitting with robbed him and his grandfather yesterday – on the road twixt here and Druigh. Killed their ox, stole their horses, and beat up the grandfather, too. We’re asking that you – as Amarillo’s law officer - help us see that justice is done. That restitution is made.”

The witcher’s words – though spoken in a normal tone – were heard by every patron in the tavern, for by that time, all other conversation in the inn had ceased. Everyone’s attention was focused on the confrontation at the alderman’s table. 

The four men at the table still hadn’t even bothered to stand. They clearly felt no threat from a pubescent boy and an elderly, white-haired man on crutches.

“Old man,” said the one with the pendant, “do you even know who you’re speaking for? Has this boy even told you who his daddy was?”

The witcher squinted his eyes. "We had a long walk here today. A long time to converse. So, yeah, he told me. A soldier in the Nilfgaardian army. Died in the war.”

The three bandits either sneered or guffawed at Geralt’s answer. 

“A Nilfgaardian soldier? That’s all he said? Why don’t you ask him his daddy’s name?”

Geralt slowly turned his head in Drazen’s direction but kept his eyes on the men in front of him.

“Drazen?”

“My last name is Kaarsten.” 

Geralt’s brows furrowed deeply, and he sighed. “Damn it,” he thought to himself. 

“Your father was Jeremias Kaarsten?” he asked.

“Yes.”

The witcher said nothing, but he again cursed to himself, for he had heard of Jeremias Kaarsten. Nearly everyone – at least, nearly everyone in the southern realms of the Continent - had heard of Jeremias Kaarsten. Though, he was actually better known as Kaarsten the Cruel. He had, indeed, been an officer in the Nilfgaardian military, and he was infamous for leading the most brutal unit imaginable. He and his men, called “Kaarsten’s Carnage,” terrorized the citizens of whichever realm the Black Ones happened to be attempting to conquer. The elderly, woman, babies – it didn’t matter - he slaughtered everyone. He and many of his sergeants had been hanged about a decade ago. It was actually the Emperor himself who had finally decided to put an end to Kaarsten’s reign of terror that had gotten so out of hand. Of course, anyone who knew Emhyr – as Geralt did – knew that he didn’t care one whit about justice. His execution of Kaarsten was less about justice and more about practicality and politics – as a way to placate the thousands of voices in the Nilfgaardian duchies who cried out for vengeance over Kaarsten’s war crimes. 

“After what his piece-of-shit daddy did to our families, the boy’s lucky we left him and his granddaddy alive,” said one of the other men. “He slaughtered them all. That butcher even cut off my little sister’s teats. What kind of sick bastard does that?”

The witcher shook his head. He wasn’t sure how any of this could turn worse. Finally, he turned to look at Drazen.

“Kid, after this over, we need to discuss you picking a new last name – especially if you’re gonna live in Geso.”

“Never. I’m not ashamed of it. Kaarsten is my Oma’s last name. And he’s the nicest, gentlest person I know.”   
  
“The two of you need to move on,” interrupted Clem, now standing up. “It was only the kindest of my heart that kept me from truly avenging my family yesterday. You’re grandpappy got off lucky with just a bump on his head, but stick around, and I’ll give you what you deserve.”  
  
The witcher’s eyes drifted back to the alderman.

“So, you’re gonna do nothing about this?” he asked. “These men are criminals.”

Alderman Mylam looked at the boy and then at his cousins next to him. He then let out a sigh. 

“Well, as I see it, this boy is simply confused…cause these three have been in my company, here in Amarillo, since yesterday morning. They couldn’t have robbed this boy, as he said they did.”

“He just admitted to doing it!” yelled Drazen, pointing at Clem. “Plus, he’s wearing my grandmother’s pendant around his neck. How do explain that?”

The alderman turned to his cousin. “You won that last night in a card game, right? From those three strangers that came through town.”

The cousin smiled. “That’s right. I did. Three mean-looking fellows. They must have been the bandits that robbed you, boy.”

“That’s a lie,” hissed Drazen.

Suddenly, the smiles on the men’s faces disappeared and their hands grasped their weapons on their belts. It seemed as if everyone in the tavern was holding their breath – waiting to see if they’d actually pull their weapons and attack.

The witcher immediately loosened his grip on his crutches, preparing his hands for action. He stared at the three men, and while he may have looked stoic on the outside, a war was raging within. He felt as if the darkness – telling him to burn them all – was about to overpower him.

“Whoa, whoa, boys!” said the alderman, nervously. “Let’s cut the kid some slack. He’s obviously been through a lot recently.” 

He then turned to face the witcher. 

“You two are now officially disturbing the peace. I’m giving you a quarter-hour to leave our peaceful town.”

The White Wolf never bothered to look at the alderman. His eyes were glaring at the three men who were gripping the hilts of their swords. As the witcher slowly breathed in and out, the voices in his head were screaming at him. Just for an instant, he thought of asking the three in front of him, “Do you know how long a witcher spends each day sharpening his swords?” and then proceeding from there. But, then – miraculously - the moment passed, and he felt a calmness wash over him. Finally, he broke his stare from the three and shifted his gaze to the alderman.

“You’re obviously a man of law and order, Alderman Mylam,” he growled out – doing his best to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “As such, now that you know that the pendant was stolen, then it’s only right that it’s returned to its rightful owner. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The alderman nodded. “I am a just man…so, yeah, the boy can have the pendant back.”

The one wearing the pendant quickly shifted his eyes to Mylam before glaring back at the witcher.

“And their horses,” said Geralt with menace.

“Come again?” asked the alderman.

“I have no doubt that your friends here won this boy’s horses from those three bandits in the same card game. I’m sure that we could check the stalls out back to verify.”

“Fine,” said the alderman. “Take the horses -”

“What? You can’t be serious, Bern,” interrupted the man with the pendant.

“Shut it, Clem,” said the alderman. “Give the boy his pendant and his horses so that they can be on their way.”

Clem turned to glare at the Drazen and Geralt before ripping the necklace from his neck and throwing it at the boy. 

“I’d suggest that you two leave town as quickly as possible,” said Mylam. “The sun’s almost gone. Night can be a dangerous time in this land.”

“Yeah,” growled the witcher, “there’s no telling just what kind of monsters we might run into.”

oOo

“It’s not fair,” hissed Drazen. “They still have all of our money, they almost killed Oma, and…they’re just gonna get away with it?”

“Life ain’t fair, kid,” answered the witcher. “Learn it now. We’re lucky we got the pendant and the horses back.”

Geralt, Drazen, and Rojen were all mounted on the backs of their horses – or in Geralt’s case, on the back of his donkey – and were just leaving Amarillo. 

“Geralt is right, Drazen,” said his grandfather.

The teenager jerked his horse to a stop and glared at Geralt.

“We’re lucky? I saw what you did to those ghouls. So, I know you could’ve killed those four men without breaking a sweat. We could’ve gotten everything back and made sure they never did that to anyone ever again if you weren’t such a…a coward.”

“Drazen!” admonished Rojen.

Geralt stopped his donkey and looked at the boy. 

“Drazen, you’re right – I could’ve killed them all…but taking a man’s life is a serious matter. And, there are no do-overs when you kill a man. That’s not something you can ever take back. So, yeah, they deserve justice. But what they did to you and Rojen…it doesn’t warrant their deaths. That punishment doesn’t fit their crime.”

“You know what – screw you, Geralt!” 

The lad kicked his horse and galloped down the road. Both Rojen and Geralt watched him ride off into the darkness.

“I’m sorry, Geralt. He shouldn’t have said that,” said Rojen after a moment. “We owe you our lives.”

“It’s alright,” answered the witcher. “I’m used to it. Learned a long time ago no good deed goes unpunished. I’m just glad he’s still alive so that he can be pissed at me. Better that than dead.”

The witcher then looked up into the night sky and then towards the north. 

“Look, Rojen, I gotta head north and Sarda is completely out of the way. Do you think you two will be alright?”

“Yeah, I think so. Sarda’s just a day away,” said the older man. And then, offering his hand, he continued, “Thank you again for everything you did. After Drazen calms down, he’ll feel grateful, too. He’s a good boy.”

The witcher reached out and shook his hand. “Farewell, Rojen. And a piece of advice - the next time someone asks you two if you’re related to Jeremias Kaarsten, the answer is ‘no.’ It’s always ‘no.’ Got it?”

After watching Rojen ride off in Drazen’s direction, Geralt turned slowly in the saddle and looked back at Evie on the litter. He stared at her for several long moments, before finally facing forward again. He then gave a slight pull on the reins to aim his donkey towards the north. 

“Well, Prickly Pete, it’s just the three of us again,” he said, patting the little burro gently on the neck. As the donkey slowly but steadily clopped into the dark wilderness, Geralt thought about all the events that had happened since that morning. 

“Essea, I have no idea what the point of all of that was,” he said in a whisper. “But…thank you for keeping me calm tonight. I know that was you. That was all you.”

oOo

_Toussaint_

Yeshua had left Aranbhaile a fortnight prior with a walking stick and his little donkey carrying some supplies – food, water, carpentry tools, and a few, specially-selected pieces of wood. During that time, the white crow had been his ‘beacon,’ leading the lean, bearded, dark-haired carpenter during the day. The crow had kept off the main roads and pathways so, fortunately, Yeshua had not come across any bandits that were known to prowl the region. Another boon was that, in the last two weeks, he had suffered not a single seizure. In fact, Yeshua honestly believed he hadn’t felt so healthy in over a decade, since he’d been a teenager. Perhaps the exercise and the fresh, mountain air were doing him some good. 

The high peak of Mount Gorgon was on his left when he heard the crow caw high above him. Yeshua looked up and saw the bird suddenly start flying at a high speed toward the north. He stared at the crow as it flew off and disappeared over a small hill ahead. Yeshua turned back and spoke to his donkey. 

“What’s that about?” he asked, confusion clear on his face. That was the first time in two weeks the crow had been out of his sight. 

Yeshua grabbed the donkey’s halter a little more tightly and then began to hurry up the short hill. Once he got to the top, he stopped as he saw the city of Beauclair before him off in the distance. The red roof and white walls of the royal palace gleamed in the fall sunshine. He recognized the tall steeple of the cemetery’s chapel on the south side of town, and when he glanced to his right, he saw the city sprawling down towards the Port District along the Sansretour River. But what he no longer saw was the white crow.

Several hours later, Yeshua walked into the city of Beauclair, surprised by its condition. It appeared that much of the city’s building and bridges were under repair. He noticed scaffolding connected to several three-story tall structures, and masons and painters were busy touching up the façades. The deeper he ventured into the city, the more repairs he noticed. He could tell that most of the homes and businesses had undergone some type of restoration process in the last year. The fresh coats of paint made that obvious. He wondered what had happened – perhaps a devastating fire.

Unsure of what else to do, he began stopping passers-by and asking if they’d seen a white crow. Most simply shook their head, though the occasional curious citizen would stop and actually engage him in conversation. But, even those, while being friendly, weren’t able to help. Yeshua kept meandering through the city, pulling his little donkey behind him, when he finally came to a plaza in the middle of town. In its center, stood a tall, bronze statue of the former duchess, Anna Henrietta. The carpenter stood and admired the work. As a craftsman himself, he could appreciate and respect the quality of the artisanship. 

Yeshua saw a young woman bending over and resting a bouquet of flowers at the base of the statue.

“Pardon, Miss,” Yeshua said as he walked up next to her.

“Yes, sir,” she replied as she straightened up.

“I know this may sound strange, but I’m looking for a white crow. You wouldn’t have happened to see it, have you?”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Do you mean Corvo Bianco, perchance?” 

“I…I don’t know. What is that?”

“It is an estate – a vineyard – north of the city. Just past the tourney grounds.”

“And ‘Corvo Bianco’ means white crow?” The excitement in the carpenter’s voice was unmistakable.

“Indeed.”

“Do you know who owns the estate?”

“Well, I heard that our late Duchess awarded the witcher the estate for slaying The Beast.” 

“The Beast?” he asked with a confused look.

“Sir, have you not heard of what happened here in the duchy?”

Yeshua shook his head. “I’m sorry, no. Could you explain, please?”

The young woman then gave Yeshua a summary of the events of the last year in Toussaint. 

“And so, the White Wolf became the owner of the estate, but no one has seen him in months,” she said in conclusion.

Yeshua’s breath caught in his throat, and then he reached out and touched the woman on the arm. 

“The White Wolf?” he asked, anticipation now even more evident in his voice.

She took a step away from the strange man and gave him a look. “Yes, that is his moniker.” 

“Please, Miss! Can you tell me where I can find this vineyard?”

oOo

_The Pontar River_

It was late afternoon when Barcain, Malek and the rest pulled their horses to a halt on the south side of the bridge that led towards the Redanian city of Oxenfurt. They didn’t stop because they wanted to but rather because they had to. The bridge only spanned about a third of the wide river. As they peered across the Pontar, they could see that the city itself was in a very similar condition as the bridge. Over half of the city’s buildings looked to be nothing more than rubble. 

“Eilhart’s monsters?” asked Timataal. 

Malek shook his head. “Eilhart and Emhyr’s monsters. She created them, but he let them loose.”

He then turned to look at the rest of his party.

“I don’t need to remind you,” he said softly, “but I am anyway. We’ve been in danger ever since we crossed the Yaruga, but it’s about to get worse. On the other side of that river is extremely hostile territory…so, let’s do our best to stay unnoticed, shall we?”

After everyone nodded in agreement, they eventually made their way down to the water’s edge where a couple of enterprising young men had constructed a ferry. They paid the fare, and after being pulled across the river, they headed into the city itself. The sounds of construction – hammering and sawing and men yelling – could be heard all around. 

“I wonder if the inn is still standing?” asked Barcain. 

“I could use a bed and warm meal,” stated Lydial. 

They’d been on horseback every day for the last month, and during their travels, many more nights than not, they’d slept under the stars after eating a dinner of hard-tack.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out if it’s still there,” said Barcain with a smile. He then looked at the company around him. “Last one there buys the first round.”

He then spurred his horse into a gallop through the crowded Oxenfurt streets, leaving angry and shouting citizens in his wake.

Malek looked at his best friend, and they both shook their heads. 

“Well, that was inconspicuous,” said Timataal.

oOo

There was one inn left standing in Oxenfurt, but, unfortunately, every room was occupied. Given how many houses were still under re-construction and, therefore, given how many Oxenfurt residents were still homeless, no one in the group was surprised. There was, however, room in the dining hall of the tavern. After getting their first hot meal in over a week, the five headed north out of the city to find a place to make camp for the evening. 

Autumn nights in Redania were quite cold, and though they had anticipated such weather and bought thick winter coats down in Temeria, none looked forward to sleeping out under the stars. About a half-mile outside of the city, they came across a mostly-destroyed, abandoned house. It appeared as though the previous residents either were dead or had simply decided that rebuilding wasn’t worth the effort. Fortunately, for the five, two of the house’s walls were still standing, and its roof was still partially intact. If nothing else, the edifice would mostly protect them from the biting wind and from any overnight precipitation. It wasn’t long before they were all huddled around a small but blazing camp fire, and shortly after that, they began to doze off. 

Malek suddenly opened his eyes as he sensed movement near him. He looked up to see Barcain standing up. 

“Gotta go see a man about a horse,” Barcain whispered.

Malek nodded in understanding and closed his eyes. A while later, just as he was about to drift into sleep, he once again was jerked awake by muffled sounds – these coming from just outside the house’s walls. 

“Psst!” Malek hissed, quietly jumping to his feet. “Tim – Aarian – wake up.”

At that moment, Barcain came sauntering back into the house. 

“I’ve got good news and bad news, Uncle,” he said with a smile. “The bad news is that we’re surrounded.” 

Instantly, two dozen Redanian soldiers stepped out of the darkness. All of them had crossbows aimed at the four standing around the campfire. 

“The good news is – I’m with them.”

Barcain then pointed a hand towards Timataal and Aarian. 

“Those two,” he said simply. 

Immediately, several Redanians fired their weapons, and the two Nilfgaardians’ bodies were riddled with crossbow bolts before falling to the floor. 

Lydial gasped and Malek went for the weapon at his side, but before he’d even unsheathed it, a half-dozen soldiers rushed into the house, pointing their crossbows right at him. He slowly raised his hands and looked down at his best friend of over thirty years. Timataal had three bolts protruding from his chest, and another through his eye. Malek gritted his teeth as he looked back at Barcain.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Uncle. I had to plead quite vigorously to have you spared. He wanted you dead.”

“He? Who’s he?” Malek growled out.

Moving out from behind Barcain and into the firelight was a young man in his early twenties in full Redanian gear. Malek’s eyes went wide with shock. He’d never met this man in person before, but he knew his face.

“He would be me,” said the man with a crown on his head. “Radovid, Sovereign King of Redania.”

Barcain then looked at Lydial and smiled. “You were wise to help me, Nain. I told you I had powerful friends.”

oOo

_The Dragon Mountains; 101 Years Post-Conjunction_

Maccarreg shielded his face with his hand and squinted his eyes, but he could see nothing but a blanket of white in front of him. In the last three years of traversing back and forth over the northern part of the Continent, the elf from the south had become accustomed to snow, but he’d never seen a storm like this. He knew that one of his comrades was only a few yards in front of him, but the swirling flakes were falling so fast and thick that it was impossible to see. He wasn’t even sure what time of the day it was since the clouds and snowfall were so heavy that they had blotted out the sun. Visibility was so low, in fact, that Maccarreg had ordered that all his elves dismount their horses and walk along the high, narrow mountain pass for safety’s sake. 

The Aen Seidhe commander pulled his gloved hand away from his face and reached out to his side, brushing his fingertips along the rocky, mountain wall on his right – a cliff-face whose top was completely obscured by the storm. Just a few feet to his left, he knew that the trail dropped off sharply into a deep gorge. It wasn’t a straight down drop, but the slope was steep enough that he knew he’d never be able to climb back up if he ever fell down there. He looked over his shoulder behind him and past his mount, whose reins were wrapped around his left hand, but he couldn’t see the elves behind him either. Then, his eyes unconsciously shifted to the long, metal box secured to the side of his horse’s saddle, and as he turned back around and began to carefully make his way forward on the narrow trail, his thoughts were drawn to the contents of that box, to the Sword of Destruction that was enclosed within.

Three years ago, Maccarreg had left the south with close to a hundred elves under his command, but he was now the only one of those still left alive. The dozen or so elves that were currently traveling with him over the mountain pass were a rag-tag group from various northern city-states that had joined his company in their consolidated fight to defeat and capture the Sword. 

The southern elf knew that it was only a miracle that he now possessed the dreaded weapon. It had simply been a matter of being in the right place at the right time. Just two weeks ago, under the cover of darkness, he and two dozen elves had snuck their way into the palace of the Sword’s most-recent owner. As they approached the mad-elf’s sleeping quarters, they heard a scream of agony. They burst into the chambers to discover that the deranged elf had set himself on fire. Seeing the Sword of Destruction laying on the floor, many elves rushed to retrieve it, but Maccarreg got there first. Unfortunately, he’d been forced to cut down many of his “own” soldiers who had wanted to possess the Sword for themselves. There was a part of Maccarreg that couldn’t blame them, though. He could freely admit that the blade was absolutely exquisite – as beautiful as it was deadly. There had been a brief moment where even he had been tempted to pick it up.

Careful not to ever actually touch the Sword himself, he placed it in a metal box that he’d earlier tasked one of his elves to carry, and then they’d escaped back out through the palace grounds. Maccarreg knew that Essea had been with them. It was the only explanation for them being able to get into the palace and back out so easily. 

The plan had then been to head west, over the Dragon Mountains, and towards the Great Sea. Maccarreg would then sail a skiff by himself miles out into the sea and dump the Sword overboard, where it would hopefully rest undisturbed at the bottom of the ocean for the remainder of eternity. Of course, he had not shared the details of this plan with any of the remaining elves. For all they knew, they were heading to the coast to find a boat that would take them south to the Holy City. Maccarreg had not disclosed his intent because, if the last three years had taught him nothing else, he had at least become acutely aware of just how deep was the depravity of the elven heart. And given that the longest he’d known any of remaining Aen Seidhe was a handful of months, he, frankly, didn’t trust any of them. In fact, he’d barely slept a wink in the last two weeks – keeping the Sword in its box and at his side at all times. 

Maccarreg, again, raised his right arm in front of his face to shield his eyes from the swirling snow and continued to slowly fight upward and forward along the mountain trail. And it was then that he heard a deep rumbling coming from behind him. Truth was, though, that he felt it before he heard it. A tremor that shook his body. He quickly turned to look behind him, and though he could see nothing through the blizzard, he somehow knew that an avalanche of ice or rock was about to rain down on top of them. 

He yelled at his horse, “Come on!” and took off running up the narrow trail as fast as he could. 

Maccarreg heard and felt a thunder-like clap just behind him and, suddenly, the ground under his feet gave way. With the reins of his horse still wrapped around his left hand, he and his mount slid out of control down the steep mountain slope. Had it been the summer, the elf would have surely died from slamming into one of the many boulders and jagged rock outcroppings that covered the terrain. But, given that it was the middle of winter and that the mountain ground was covered with several feet of snow, the journey down was smooth and fast. The only thing the elf had to worry about was sliding into any tree trunks – not that he had any control over that. 

He was hurtling down the mountain, picking up incredible speed when, without warning, his body jerked to a halt. He cried out in anguish as searing pain ran through his left shoulder. His horse had slammed into the thick trunk of a pine tree, snapping its spine and killing it instantly. He quickly got to his feet and struggled upward through the waist high snow towards the tree. Once there, he did his best to use the tree as shelter as chunks of ice and rock continued to crash down on either side of him. 

Less than a minute later, it was all over, and Maccarreg took stock of the situation. He saw that his horse was dead and partially buried with snow, and it was then that the intense pain in his shoulder finally broke through his adrenaline buzz. A grimace came to his face as he reached up with his right hand. It felt like his arm had been pulled from its socket. He quickly unwrapped the reins from around his left hand and put one of the pieces of leather in his mouth. Biting down hard, he then lifted his left arm above his head. Nothing happened except that a terrible agony shot through his shoulder and down his arm, and he screamed through his clenched teeth. Now breathing even heavier than before, he decided to try something else. With his arm down at his side, he bent his elbow and rotated his arm externally. Suddenly, he felt something pop in his shoulder, and as the pain subsided, he gave an involuntary sigh of relief and fell backward into the snow, the leather rein falling from his mouth. 

But Maccarreg knew that he couldn’t stay there for long. He had to keep moving or he’d freeze to death. What he really needed to do was find shelter. He quickly got to his feet and began – one handed – to dig the snow away from his horse’s body. He was eventually able to free both the box carrying the Sword of Destruction and his saddle bags. With his bags draped over his right shoulder and the box under his right arm, he then looked up the mountain slope. The storm was still raging so he couldn’t even see the narrow trail from where he’d just fallen, but he knew climbing up would be impossible anyway. Going down into the gorge was his only option. Hopefully, he could find some kind of shelter – perhaps a cave – down below. 

“Lead my steps,” he said out loud, and then with a determined look and holding his left arm close to his side, he began trudging his way downhill through the thigh-high snow.

oOo

Deep inside a fairly large cavern, Maccarreg sat very close to a small fire, his entire body shivering. It had taken him over an hour to reach the bottom of the gorge, and then another hour before he came across a small opening to what appeared to be a cave. He’d used his sword to chip away at the ice and snow that was covering the cave’s entrance, and then, once inside, he had, as quickly as possible, started a camp fire. 

He placed his ungloved hands as close to the flames as he could, and he clenched and unclenched his fingers over and over as he tried to keep the blood flowing through them. As he did this, he gazed over to his side, to the box containing the Sword of Destruction. He then looked back towards the fire and closed his eyes.

“Well, you’ve provided me shelter and a fire…so it could be worse,” he said in a low voice. “But I have no idea what you want me to do now.” 

As he exhaled deeply, the Aen Seidhe suddenly felt completely exhausted – more tired than he’d ever felt in his life. The toll of not only the last several hours and not only the last two weeks but also the last three years of constant war had finally caught up to him. And despite the presence of the fire, he felt the bitter cold numbing him down to his bones. But, more than anything else, the old elf felt confused. After three years of fighting his fellow Aen Seidhe from the north and watching his own brothers-in-arms from the south die beside him, this was how it was all going to end? Just when he was so close to fulfilling his goal of ridding the world of the damned Sword, he was going to, instead, end up freezing alone in a cave thousands of miles from home? Though he loathed to admit it, he couldn’t deny that there was a flicker of doubt within him. 

“This can’t have been your plan, Lord. Right?” he said in his mind.

It was then that Maccarreg heard a noise echoing down from the cave’s entrance. He slowly got to his feet and unsheathed his sword from its scabbard on his left hip. He stood there, his left arm held tightly to his stomach and his sword at his right side – simply waiting for whatever was coming his way. 

Less than a minute later, three Aen Seidhe – their teeth chattering – came into view. Upon seeing Maccarreg, they all stopped. The southern elf then noticed that the eyes of all three shifted down towards the Sword-filled box that was at his feet. 

Then, one of them looked up at Maccarreg and smiled.

“We knew we smelled a fire,” he said as he started walking forward.

“Stop right there,” commanded Maccarreg, lifting his sword and pointing its tip at the northern elves.

The smile fell from the elf’s face. “Maccarreg, what’s wrong with you? Come on, we’re freezing.”

The southern elf simply shook his head slowly. 

“I’ve noticed all three of you these last two weeks. Seen the way you look at this box. Seen the way you looked at it just now. There’s not a chance in hell, I’m letting any of you near this Sword. So, since I’m on the verge of passing out…and since I have no desire to have my throat cut in my sleep…then we’re just going to settle this right now. So…draw your swords.”

The three northern elves just looked at one another, and then, without a word, they all unsheathed their blades and spread out as much as the cavern would allow. 

Immediately, Maccarreg stepped forward and kicked at the campfire, sending a fiery log at the middle elf. As his enemy raised his sword to bat the projectile away, Maccarreg hopped forward and thrust his blade through the other’s heart. He quickly spun to his right, using the dying elf as a shield against one of his opponents. However, his right side was exposed to the other, and though he parried the incoming blow, he wasn’t quite fast enough to knock it completely aside, and the enemy’s blade sliced through his heavy coat and into his thick back muscles. Ignoring the pain, the master-swordsman swung his blade true, decapitating his attacker, and then quickly spun his body. As he came out of his pirouette, he expertly parried that last enemy’s blade before taking a short step forward and thrusting his own steel through the third elf’s gut. 

After quickly verifying that all three elves were dead, Maccarreg sat back down next to the fire, and, eventually, he fell over onto his right side. He’d already been tired before the battle, and the sword-fight had drained him of his last vestiges of energy. His left shoulder was throbbing, the wound on his back was on fire, and he was starting to shiver again – whether from the cold or from the adrenaline leaving his system he wasn’t sure. 

“I guess this cave is as good as any place to die,” he said between taking deep breaths. He then glanced at the box containing the Sword. “I sure wish I could’ve dropped you to the bottom of the ocean, though.”

He then laid his head down on the cave floor and closed his eyes. Sadness overtook him as he realized that he’d never see his loved ones again on this side of heaven.

“I’m ready to see your glory, Father,” he whispered, as his breaths began to slow.

Suddenly, an incredibly bright, white light filled the cavern. Even with his eyes closed, it was almost blinding. Maccarreg jerked upright, and seeing a glowing vision in front of him, he quickly bowed down in worship, his face on the cavern floor. 

“Lord?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“Rise, Maccarreg,” came a voice. “Do not bow down before me for I am not your God. I am only His messenger.”

The elf slowly opened his eyes and raised himself up to the kneeling position.

“The Lord Almighty is not yet done with his servant,” stated the radiant vision. “But fear not, for he will be with you.”

Maccarreg nodded. “His will be done. What does he require of me?” 

“Take heed. This is the word of the Lord…”

A half hour later, Maccarreg – with a torch in his left hand - stood at the edge of a chasm that was deep within the cavern. Holding the long, metal box under his right arm, he looked down into the chasm but saw nothing but darkness. He exhaled deeply, and then with all his might, he tossed the box into the void. Several seconds passed, until he finally heard the sounds of metal crashing against rock echoing up towards him. As the echoes faded out and the silence returned, he turned and slowly walked away.


	37. Chapter 37

Book 3: The Wolf Dies  
Chapter 5

_The Sansretour Valley; Fall 1273_

Barnabas-Basil Foulty stirred from his sleep in the middle of the night, but that wasn’t unusual for the steward of Corvo Bianco. He had known restless nights since first becoming a majordomo for the Kniebihly family over two decades before. His father, who too had been a majordomo, instilled into Barnabas-Basil the belief that being the steward of an estate was of the highest honor, and B.B. always felt the weight of that responsibility. That weight was what drove him to oversee every aspect of the vineyard in meticulous detail. It’s what motivated him to keep long hours. And given that his current employer – one Geralt of Rivia – was quite clueless in the intricate day-to-day operations of being a land owner, then Barnabas-Basil felt an even greater responsibility than he’d had at any of his previous places of employment, for the witcher clearly needed his expertise more than any of the others had. 

Compounding the matter was the fact that the witcher hadn’t been at Corvo Bianco in over six months. Geralt’s last words to the majordomo before mounting his horse and heading out onto the Path had been, “You’re in charge, B.B., so just do whatever you think’s best. I trust you.” Of course, that left every decision – both big and small – to B.B.’s discretion. Thus, the success or failure of the vineyard rested entirely upon him. He wasn’t sure when Geralt would return, but when the witcher finally did, B.B. wanted him to see that he’d left his property in highly capable hands. He didn’t fear Geralt’s anger – for he knew the witcher to actually be a very laid-back and understanding employer - but rather, he feared being the cause of disappointment. More than anything else, from his very first day of becoming a majordomo, he wanted to hear the master of the estate say, “Well done, B.B. You’re a good and faithful steward. I’m grateful for your diligence.” 

However, on this night, the majordomo was not brought out of his slumber by anxiety over some undone detail dealing with the estate. This night, he was awakened by his worries for his boss’ well-being. By the same worry that he’d had for the last two weeks – ever since that bearded, Nazairene carpenter had showed up on the back of a donkey, talking of strange and disturbing visions. 

B.B. threw off his bedcovers, quickly dressed, and then walked purposefully out into the night air, and he knew instantly that something was different. He suddenly stopped and began slowly turning in a circle – using all of his senses, almost like a witcher - to take in his surroundings. In the last six months, he had formed a relationship with the lands of Corvo Bianco. He knew how the estate sounded; how it smelled; what kind of energy it had at the different times of the day. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but in some primitive part of his brain, he registered that the estate was slightly different than normal. Maybe it was an almost-imperceptible odor in the air. Maybe it was the unusual way that the estate’s cat skulked in the shadows. He wasn’t sure, but he knew something had changed. And then he heard it. 

A noise carried in the still, night air – a noise coming from the northern side of the property. Suddenly, the majordomo’s heart began to beat quickly, and sweat broke out under his arms. While Barnabas-Basil would never consider himself a brave man, he knew that, as the steward of Corvo Bianco, he had a duty to perform so he quickly headed to the stables and grabbed a pitchfork that was resting against the wall. He never noticed a little burro laying down, sleeping in one of the previously-empty stalls. Now armed, but not feeling any more confident, B.B. quietly headed in the direction of the noise. 

In the light of the full moon, the steward tip-toed across the small, wooden bridge that spanned the fresh-water spring that ran through the estate, and then he made his way along the wall of the arboretum which housed a variety of flowers and plants. He stopped at the corner of the planthouse and carefully poked his head out to get a glimpse of the person or animal trespassing on the estate. As his eyes scanned the grounds, he suddenly realized that all was quiet. Had he scared off the intruder? He certainly hoped so. But, then, his eyes picked up something large and dark in the clearing ahead. From where he stood, it looked like a large, black bear lying on the ground. If that was the case, then he knew that he needed to turn right back around and head indoors for safety. 

Not knowing what else to do, the majordomo bent down and picked up a small rock. He slung it as hard as he could at the bear, and he heard it made contact. But the bear didn’t move at all. That was strange. Maybe it wasn’t an animal after all. So, he very slowly began to approach the mysterious entity in the meadow. As he got closer, he sighed as he realized that what he thought had been a bear was nothing but a large mound of dirt. 

Suddenly, a white, ghostly apparition appeared, rising up from the ground just next to the mound of soil. 

“Ahhh!” Barnabas-Basil let out of frightened gasp and brandished his weapon in front of him.

“Easy with that pitchfork, B.B.,” spoke the ghost in a gravelly voice. “You could kill someone with that. Believe me, I know.” 

“Sir? Is that you?” the steward asked in between deep breaths.

The witcher, his white hair and pale skin reflecting in the moonlight, reached down and grabbed his crutches off the ground and then took a couple of steps closer to his majordomo.

“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry I frightened you.”

At first, B.B. said nothing. He just stared at the crutches that were holding up the master of the estate. Finally, his eyes drifted up to look at the witcher. 

“Sir…I…I don’t believe it. You’re injured.” 

“Yeah, I am. But no need to sound that surprised. You know how dangerous my life is.”

B.B. shook his head. “No…it’s not that, Sir. It’s…well…a man came to Corvo Bianco recently. Said that he’d had strange visions…visions about a bloody, injured albino wolf. And he claimed that he was led here by a white crow. He admitted that he didn’t know what it was all about, but…he said that he felt called to come here. It all sounded like…the ramblings of a mad-man or…some charlatan so…at first, I was going to send him away.” 

“At first?”

“Yes, Sir, until I found out who he was.”

“Yeah? And just who was he?”

“Yeshua, sir. The famous master-craftsman carpenter from Nazair. When I found that out, I knew he was no charlatan. So, I made a deal with him.”

“What deal?”

“That he could stay. I would provide him lodging and meals in exchange for his services around the estate…for as long as he wanted.”

Upon hearing that, the witcher just grunted. 

“I must say, sir, the tales of his skills and expertise are not exaggerated. His work has been quite exceptional.” 

Geralt nodded his head. “An expert in wood-working, huh? Well, let me finish what I’m doing here, then, afterwards…we’ll go see this Nazairene carpenter.”

“Sir? If I may be so bold to ask - for what purpose are you digging here in the middle of the night?”

The witcher paused and then let out a short sigh. “It’s my wife’s grave, B.B.”

The steward gasped. “Sir? Your wife? Her grave?”

“Yeah…I got married since you saw me last.”

“And she’s…oh, sir…I’m so…terribly sorry. Please, let me assist you.”

Geralt shook his head. “No, B.B. This is something I need to do alone. Go on back to bed. I’ll wake you when I’m done.”

“Of course, sir. I…I certainly can’t return to sleep now, but I shall leave you to yourself. I’ll have breakfast ready when you are finished here,” he said with a slight bow. “Good day, sir. And may I say that it’s good to have you back – regardless of the circumstances.”

“Thanks, B.B. It’s…it’s good to be back.”

After watching the majordomo walk back towards the main house of the estate, Geralt picked up his shovel, hopped back down into the grave, and returned to digging. He’d been at it for several hours already so he didn’t have much left to do. 

Finally, two hours later, just as the eastern sky was starting to lighten, Geralt stood with the aid of his crutches at the foot of Evie’s grave. He’d picked a clearing on the northern side of the property, on a small, elevated hill from where one could look down across his estate and towards the Sansretour River below. As he stared down at the mound of dirt at his feet, his mind drifted back over the events of the past few months. Finally, he lifted his head and then his eyes upward to look at the stars still visible in the west. 

“I promised you once that I’d bring you here when this was all over.” He then inhaled and exhaled deeply. “I brought your body…but it’s not even close to being the same thing.” He lowered his head and gave it a slight shake. 

Geralt stood there, silent and motionless for the longest time. “I’m sorry I failed you, Evie,” he whispered. “I’m sorry…we never got the chance to make this our home.”

After a bit, he looked back up towards the heavens. 

“Essea, if I’m honest…then I’d rather you just take me home right now. But if I gotta stay…then I’m gonna need your help to do what you want me to do. A lot of help.” 

He gazed up at the night sky, his eyes searching, hoping for some kind of sign that he’d been heard. But he saw nothing except the stars twinkling back at him. After waiting for several minutes, he eventually turned and crutched his way towards the main house.

oOo

_Redania_

Lydial looked over at the large man riding next to her. Malek was sitting atop his horse, but his hands were tied behind his back. A long rope ran from his horse’s halter to a covered wagon directly in front of them. There were at least fifty Redanian soldiers ahead – with Barcain and King Radovid somewhere in their midst – and another fifty behind them. Malek hadn’t said hardly a word all morning. She wasn’t sure if he was so sullen because of the death of his friends – which was something she could completely empathize with – or if his mood was due to Barcain’s betrayal – which she also completely understood, having felt the same back in the Tir Torchair Mountains. Though a part of her wanted to tell him, “So, betrayal doesn’t feel so good, does it?” she ultimately refrained from doing so. Her compassion won out. Reveling in his sorrow – even if he was the person responsible for Evangeline’s death – just didn’t seem like the kind thing to do. Besides, she realized that, as strange as it may have sounded, Malek might be the closest “friend” she had left in the world. Certainly, he was the closest friend she had left in that particular caravan. She no longer trusted Barcain at all, and she wasn’t sure which one of them – the Nilfgaardian spy or the Aen Seidhe elf - the Redanian soldiers looked at with more disgust. She knew that the two of them needed to watch out for one another just for that reason alone.

“I’m sorry about your friends,” she said softy, trying her best to keep any of the Redanians around from overhearing.   
  
Malek looked at her and gave her a short nod. 

“We always figured that it’d happen to one of us, sooner or later,” he whispered back. “Not too many folk in our line of work are actually ever able to retire. But, for it to happen the way it did…that’s what’s so tough to swallow.”

Lydial nodded her understanding in return.

“Have you ever seen those little boxes that they showed us?” she asked. “What did they call them?”

“A xenovox – and no, never,” he answered. “I have to admit. They are amazing devices. Incredible for spy-work.”

“I feel so stupid, now.”

“Why’s that?”

“When we were traveling all throughout Redania this past summer, we couldn’t figure out how Radovid and his men even knew who Evangeline was, much less knew where she’d be. I’ve been thinking about it all morning - his soldiers ambushed us on the Nimnar River, then again near Claude’s house in Novigrad, and a third time in the caverns below the Tretogor palace.”

“They also had an ambush set up for you above the southern pass of the Kestral Mountains.”

“Is that right?”

He nodded back.

“Now…it seems so obvious that it was Barcain. The clues were so clear.”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up too much,” Malek said. “I didn’t expect it, either.”

“Yeah, you’re supposed to be able to trust your family. They’re the last ones that you’d ever think would betray you.”

He nodded and then sighed deeply. 

“I guess that’s why it’s so easy to be fooled.” 

oOo

_Corvo Bianco_

The witcher downed a potion to alleviate the pain in his throbbing stump, and then he unsheathed his sword. He twirled it around his torso before taking a short step and thrusting the blade forward. His right boot hit the ground, and then he awkwardly twisted into a spin. His body turned in the air but only about a quarter of the way instead of the full turn to which he was accustomed. As he came down gracefully on his left foot, he immediately twisted his body again. When his full rotation was complete, he slashed his sword through an imaginary foe and then landed on both feet – though clearly favoring his left one. Geralt continued practicing for another fifteen minutes before he finally stopped, sweat dripping from his face and his shirt clinging to his back and chest. 

“It looks like you’re getting used to it,” said Yeshua, sitting in the shade of a nearby tree. “You didn’t fall once that time. So, it’s staying in place?”

“Well, I’ve had to make some serious adjustments to my technique, and I’ll clearly never have the skill I used to,” answered the witcher, “but, yeah, it feels really secure on my leg. Much better than the first one.” 

The two of them were in the same clearing where Evie’s body was buried. Geralt had been there all morning, getting used to the wooden prosthesis, while Yeshua would show up about once an hour to receive any feedback from the witcher. This had been their routine for almost a week, ever since the carpenter had first starting making the wooden legs for the witcher. 

Yeshua was actually quite proud of his work, especially considering that he’d never made a fake appendage before. It wasn’t just a simple “peg leg.” He’d carefully crafted it to actually look like Geralt’s foot and lower calf so that the witcher could place his boot over it, and fortunately, there at Corvo Bianco, Geralt had a couple of spare sets of witcher armor – boots included – from which to choose. Thus, while dressed and while standing still, no one would ever be able to tell that the witcher was missing his lower leg. Of course, as soon as he took a step, the severe limp was a dead give-away. 

The carpenter from Nazair had crafted the prosthesis from the trunk of a Kaybracha tree – also known as “the axe breaker.” It was the hardest wood that could be found in the Toussaint duchy. To help keep the leg secure, Yeshua had designed it so that the top part acted like a glove. The entire wooden leg was about thirty inches from top to bottom. The foot and calf portion were solid, but the top portion was hollowed out so that Geralt had to slide his leg into the prosthesis. While this kept him from being able to bend his knee, this aspect – along with some leather straps securing it to his thigh – helped to keep the prosthesis in place. Yeshua’s first prototype, which had stopped below the knee, had been adequate when Geralt was simply walking, but it never stayed in place whenever he began twisting and putting excess torque on it while practicing with his sword. It would eventually slip or twist, causing the witcher to wind up on his back every time. So, after a lengthy discussion, Geralt decided he’d sacrifice a little mobility in exchange for the extra stability. And as his last practice session had just shown, it’d been the right choice. 

Geralt limped over to the carpenter and looked down at the smaller man. He then extended his hand, and the two men shook hands.

“I want to thank you again,” he said. “Your work is amazing, and…I really am grateful.”

“Well, it’s truly my pleasure. I’m glad that I could help,” Yeshua replied. “And I made this for you, as well,” he said as he handed Geralt a simple yet incredibly well-crafted cane. “Maybe it’ll be useful.”

Geralt grabbed the cane with his left hand and looked down at it, the mid-day sun reflecting brightly off the wood’s fine finish. He then put the end of the cane on the ground, partially rested his weight on it, and then walked in a small circle, testing out the supportive device. 

After about ten steps, he stopped right back in front of the carpenter. The witcher looked at him and nodded his head several times. 

“It’s the perfect height.” 

Yeshua smiled and shrugged. “Yes, well, attention to detail is one of my strong suits.”

“I’ll definitely need this for now – at least, until I get more used to walking with this leg. Thanks again, I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

Yeshua nodded and then paused for a second, looking at the witcher with some uncertainty. “I…I hope that you don’t take this the wrong way, but…you’re nothing like I thought you’d be.”

“Is that right? And just how’d you think I’d be?”

“Well…I didn’t know you, obviously, but I had heard of you – I mean, who hasn’t heard of the famous White Wolf – the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, right? I just pictured this tough, silent loner who’d never show any weakness. So…I was just surprised that you were so willing to accept my assistance. That you seem so…humble.”

The witcher gave a slight nod of his head. 

“Yeah, well, the guy you just described was me for most of my life. Didn’t ask for help because…well, for a lot of reasons. Frankly, I rarely needed to. And, on the Path, there’s hardly anyone who would’ve offered me help anyway. But, mostly, it was because I was too proud. Didn’t want to ever be indebted to anyone. Plus…I always believed that wanting a crutch when you didn’t need it made you a lazy, weak fool. Not something I ever wanted to be.”

“So, what happened that changed you?”

Geralt took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly before he spoke. “A lot happened…not least of which - losing a leg. That’ll certainly humble you.” 

Yeshua nodded. 

“That, and I met an old woman recently. She made me see that…refusing a crutch when I do need it would make me a mule-headed fool. Didn’t particularly want to be that type of fool either. So, there you go.”

“Makes sense,” Yeshua said with a smile. “Sounds like a wise woman.”

The witcher smirked. “Yeah, she’s…a lot of things. I suppose ‘wise’ is certainly in the mix somewhere.”

Yeshua smiled back and said, “You know, as much as I’m glad that I could help you, it’s also a relief to just finally know what those seizures and visions were about.” 

The witcher nodded his head. “And you haven’t had any since you got here?"

“No. None at all. That’s how I knew I was in the right place.”

“You know – I never asked you – when exactly did those visions start?”

Yeshua paused for a moment. “Oh, about two months ago, I guess.”

He noticed that Geralt’s eyes moved away, and then the witcher nodded his head a couple of times, as if lost in thought.

“And when exactly did you lose your leg?” 

The question brought Geralt back to the present, and he looked at Yeshua. “Little over a month ago.”

“Seems pretty unlikely that it’s all a coincidence, huh?”

The witcher nodded. “Yeah. Pretty unlikely.”

“So, how do you explain it?” asked Yeshua.

A small smile came to Geralt’s face. 

“Let’s go have a seat on the front porch, and then I’ll tell you all about who I think sent you those visions.”

oOo

_The Dragon Mountains, 101 Years Post-Conjunction_

“And what happened next?” asked the excited adolescent.

“We heard this loud rumbling sound, turned around and saw an avalanche come down, right on top of the rest of our party,” answered an Aen Seidhe with a slight slur, before drinking down the remainder of his ale.

The drunk elf was one of four sitting in the small inn of the village of Chiava. They’d been there for the last four days, waiting out what the locals said was the heaviest snow storm in decades. It had only been that morning that the worst of the storm had seemed to pass.

“What happened to them?” the teenager asked.

“Don’t know,” said another elf. “Couldn’t see anything up on that mountain. We’re lucky we even made it down.”

“They’re dead. Even if the fall didn’t kill them, they could never survive out there in that blizzard,” said the drunk, nodding his head towards the frost-covered windows. 

The young half-man/half-elf was furiously scribbling down notes on some parchment. He then looked up and asked, “And you said that you were carrying a powerful weapon?”

Suddenly, a third elf reached over and slammed his hand down on the parchment.

“What’s with all the writing, half-breed?”

The teenager looked up, startled. Even though his human, genetic characteristics dominated their elven counterparts, the youngster displayed enough Aen Seidhe physical features that his mixed heritage was obvious.

“I’m sorry…I just like to write,” he stammered. “Living in this town, nothing exciting ever happens. So…sometimes I like to make up stories.”

The Aen Seidhe looked at the lad and then slowly moved his hand away. 

“Well, you’re not the only one. Narriel here likes to make up stories, too. He has quite the imagination, especially when he drinks,” he said nodding his head at the inebriated elf. “There was no weapon. Right, Narriel?”

Narriel looked at the glaring face of his compatriot. “Yeah…um, right, Siohban,” he mumbled.

Just then, a large woman, wearing a dirty apron, hustled into the dining area of the inn, carrying a mug of ale, which she placed in front of Narriel. 

“Lan! Go back to the kitchen! Quit annoying the customers with all your questions,” she said, swatting the teenager in the back of the head with a rag. “And your father needs help cutting the firewood.”

Lan ducked his head down and quickly gathered up his notes. 

“Yes, Ma.”

It was at that moment that the front door to the inn blew open, the frigid, winter winds slamming it hard against the wall. Everyone inside the inn immediately swiveled their heads towards the noise. A stranger – of indeterminate race and gender – quickly stepped into the small, warm room, shutting the door behind him before more snow flurries could sneak their way inside. The stranger was covered from head to toe in several, thick layers of clothing. Even the stranger’s face was hidden by a heavy, wool scarf.

“I have no idea what could bring you out in weather like this,” stated Ma, “but we’ve got some stew and ale to warm you up, if you’d like.”

The stranger didn’t say anything for several moments. The only thing visible was the newcomer’s eyes – eyes that were staring hard at the four Aen Seidhe elves. 

“Soup sounds great. Thank you,” the stranger eventually rasped out. “I’ll skip the ale, though. I’ll have some cider if you got it…please.”

With a nod of her head, Ma quickly rushed back towards the kitchen. 

The stranger then walked very slowly over to the table where the four elves were sitting and removed the saddle bags from his shoulder, carefully resting them on the floor. He, then, eased himself into the now-vacant chair that Lan had been occupying and pulled his scarf down below his chin, revealing his face.

The jaws of each of the Aen Seidhe dropped at seeing Maccarreg alive and, mostly, well.

“We thought you were dead,” finally stated one of the four. 

Before he could answer, Lan came out of the back kitchen carrying a bowl of steaming stew and a mug of cider. The southern elf gave a nod of gratitude to the teenager as he placed the order on the table, and then he watched the youngster walk away. As soon as the lad had disappeared around the corner, he took a large spoonful of food into his mouth, swallowed it down with a smile, and then looked up at the four. 

“Just wasn’t my time. Essea’s not done with me yet,” he said with a half-smirk, half-sneer. He knew that the four were not worshippers of the God of the Aen Seidhe. 

“And the others?” asked Narriel.

“Don’t know,” answered Maccarreg with a shrug as he continued to shovel the stew down his throat. “If they’re not here, I figure they’re dead.”

“And the Sword?’ asked Siohban.

The master-swordsman looked up, his spoon paused halfway between the bowl and his mouth. He looked hard at Siohban for a moment, gulped down the next spoonful, and then shook his head. 

“Lost. The avalanche took me and my horse right over the edge. Never saw my horse…or the box after that.”  
  
Narriel blew out a deep breath. “Unbelievable,” he said, mostly to himself. “After a century of wreaking havoc…we finally get our hands on the most powerful weapon on the Continent, and now…it’s just lost somewhere in the mountains.” 

“How is it you’re even still alive?” asked Siohban.

“Essea led me to a cave. Stayed there till the storm died down.”

“What are we going to do now?” asked one of the others.

Maccarreg sighed. “Can’t speak for you…but I’m going home.”

“What?” said Siohban with a tone of disbelief. “You’re not going to wait things out here and then go back into the mountains - try to find it?”

The southern elf shook his head. “The mission was never to possess the Sword. It was simply to stop others from using it. We’ve done that…so I’m going home.” He then looked at the four elves with a very cold stare. “The only five souls in the world who know of its approximate location are sitting right here at this table, and I know that none of us would ever want it to be found again…right?” His eyes locked with those of Siohban.

The northern elf never flinched, but he eventually smiled. “Of course,” he said.

Maccarreg then nodded. “Then, it’s agreed. We can all go home.”

Little did the five Aen Seidhe know, but Lan was hidden behind the open door to the kitchen, listening closely to the entire conversation. And for the first time in his life, he was grateful for his mixed heritage and that his father had taught him the Elder speech. While he didn’t truly understand the details of their discussion, his imagination was running riot, and he couldn’t wait to write everything down in his journal later that evening. 

Suddenly, the boy heard yells and the unmistakable sound of wooden furniture being broken coming from the dining area. Too scared to investigate the commotion, he stayed hidden behind the kitchen door, but his mother, too, had heard the ruckus and charged into the other room. Seeing her leading the way, he followed right behind her, his curiosity getting the better of him. 

What he saw made him pause. He’d seen dead bodies before, but they’d all died of natural causes. He’d never seen carnage like this. Three of the four northerners were lying on the floor, their clothes stained crimson from various wounds. The stranger was standing over the corpses, their blood dripping from his blade and onto the floor. Narriel, the drunken elf, was sitting on the floor with his hands in front of his face.

“Mercy, mercy!” he cried. “Don’t kill me please!”

Maccarreg glared down at the elf.

“You’ll live…cause you didn’t draw your weapon. But you’d best remember what I said.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” Narriel quickly agreed. “Of course, I…I know nothing.”

It was then that Maccarreg noticed that he and Narriel had company.

“Sorry for the mess,” said Maccarreg, looking at the tavern owner, her eyes wide at the scene in front of her. He then saw the writing utensil and parchment in Lan’s hands, and he immediately thought back to the vision three days earlier in the cavern high in the mountains. 

“Hey, boy.” 

Lan’s head jerked in the elf’s direction.

“You wouldn’t happen to have an extra quill and parchment, would you? I’ve got something really important I need to write down.” 

The teenager was too in shock to say anything so he just looked at the very frightening elf and nodded his head.

oOo

_Corvo Bianco; Fall 1273_

“Sir? Your last will and testament?” asked Barnabas-Basil. His tone was a mixture of concern and confusion. 

The witcher stared into the eyes of his majordomo and slowly nodded his head.

“I already told you what I’ve got in front of me. And…” he paused and shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll be coming back from it. So…” Geralt didn’t finish his thought. “Just keep reading.”

The witcher and his steward were sitting by themselves on the front porch of the estate’s main house. The sun had already set, but there was a lantern on a nearby table, giving B.B. just enough light to read the document in his hand. Thirty seconds later, the majordomo gasped and looked over at Geralt.

“Sir…you can’t be serious.”

Geralt nodded at his steward again. “I am.”

“But, I don’t…Sir…you can’t…what about your family?” stammered B.B.

Upon hearing the question, Geralt’s eyes shifted away from his steward, and as he looked out over his estate, memories began to flash through his mind. He saw images of Vesemir – the only father-figure that he’d ever known. Despite it being over nine decades ago, he could still vividly recall the first time the old witcher had ever placed a training sword into his little hands and showed him how to properly grip the handle. Vesemir’s teachings – given over the course of thousands of hours of instruction – were etched into the White Wolf’s mind. To this day, the witcher still gripped his sword in the exact way that Vesemir had first taught him. But the gruff man hadn’t just shared his knowledge of swordsmanship; over the years, he’d shown that he’d truly come to care for Geralt, freely dispensing his hard-earned lessons on life. “A wise man will use his words with restraint. Hell, even a fool is thought wise if he keeps his mouth shut,” was one of his former teacher’s favorite sayings. Sometimes, Geralt thought that, perhaps, the two of them – both Vesemir and himself - had taken that tenet too much to heart. But, regardless of the actual accuracy of the teachings, Geralt knew that the old, taciturn witcher’s motivations for giving them came from a good place. Vesemir was, without a doubt, the first adult in the world that he could ever remember actually showing him any compassion or understanding – even if it was hidden under a rough exterior. 

Memories of Ciri – his daughter in every way but blood – also flooded his mind. More times than not, he remembered her as a ten-year-old – the age she’d been when he’d first decided to take her in. She had been so small and so emotionally scarred from living through war, watching those closest to her die right in front of her. She had been so full of fear but had tried her hardest to cover it up with bravado and defiance. But, despite her best effort to put on a strong face, she’d still occasionally let him into her terrors and pain. His strongest memories were of her coming into his room at Kaer Morhen in the middle of the night. He could still see her face all scrunched up and red from crying. She’d sniffle, wipe the tears from her eyes, and ask, “Geralt, can I sleep in your bed tonight?” Just the tone in her voice had made his heart break. It had been strange for him at first – for he’d never really been around little girls - but he came to treasure those moments when it was just him and his ward. He’d hold her and reassure her and let her talk about whatever she wanted until she’d finally fall asleep. And he could still remember the smell of her ashen, little-girl hair. It had smelled like innocence. 

And, of course, the mention of family brought forth memories of Evie – the woman he’d taken for his wife. The one woman to whom he’d finally and fully surrendered his heart. The woman who had taught him what it meant to truly love and to be loved in a completely unconditional way. Thinking of her caused his throat to constrict and a stab of pain pierced his chest. He clenched his jaws and swallowed hard and then turned his head to look back at his majordomo.

“B.B., my family’s gone,” he finally said, “and I can’t think of a more perfect person to own this place if I don’t come back. You’ve proven a hundred times over that you’re the best at running an estate for others. So, it only makes sense that you should get a chance to run an estate of your own. I have no doubt that you’ll turn Corvo Bianco into something special.”

B.B. looked at Geralt and nodded. “I am honored, sir, and thank you. I don’t rightly know what to say…other than, I promise that I will do you proud.”

“I know you will,” Geralt replied with a nod. “You always do.”

At that, the witcher rose from where he was seated. 

“Time to go,” he said as he grabbed his cane. “I’ve been here too long already.”

He then limped over towards his new mount – one of the estate’s large and muscular horses – that was already saddled and carrying his saddle bags, expertly packed full of potions, oils, bombs, and various alchemical ingredients. The witcher had been quite busy in his week at Corvo Bianco and not just from getting used to walking and fighting with his new prosthesis.

Geralt grabbed ahold of the saddle, and while carefully balancing himself on his right, wooden leg, he lifted his left leg and placed his foot in the stirrup. He pulled himself upward and swung his right leg over. He’d already discovered that, because of the prosthesis, it would be impossible for him to use his right stirrup – which was going to make horse-back riding all the more difficult. It was just another reminder of how he’d previously taken so much in life for granted. 

“Take care of Prickly Pete for me,” the witcher said, looking down at B.B. “The little guy served me well.”

“Of course, sir,” the majordomo answered. “And please rest assured about that special request you asked of me. I have already written to Master Stephaneaux. He’s the finest mason in all Toussaint.”

A somber look crossed the witcher’s face.

“I’m sure he’ll do fine,” Geralt answered with a nod. The witcher then gazed over B.B.’s head at his house - the house that he’d once thought would be both his and Evie’s home. After letting his eyes linger over the façade, he turned his head and began to slowly take in the rest of his estate. Eventually, he exhaled deeply, looked back at his steward, and gave a small, sad smile. 

“Farewell, B.B.”

“Uh…Sir?”

“Yeah?”

“The…the god you told me about – what was his name?”

“Essea.”

“Right…Essea. Well…are you sure he’s real?”

Geralt looked at his steward for a moment and then gave a nod. “Yeah…I’m pretty convinced.”

“Then…I will pray, sir, that he will protect you in your travels.”

“Yeah, well…I guess only time will tell what he actually plans to do, but…thank you for the prayer, B.B. I’ll take all I can get. And I pray that, one day, he’ll reveal himself to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied the steward, with a small bow of his head.

“Good-bye, Barnabas-Basil.”

And then the witcher surprised his steward by leaning down in the saddle and offering his hand. So caught off guard was B.B. that he just stared at the out-stretched hand for a moment, before finally stepping forward and taking Geralt’s hand in his own.

“Good-bye, sir,” he replied and then released the witcher’s grip. 

With that, Geralt nodded and lightly snapped his mount’s reins. The majordomo of Corvo Bianco stood there, watching his boss – and, dare he say, friend – ride off into the darkness, and he wondered if he’d ever see the white-haired witcher again.


	38. Chapter 38

Book 3: The Wolf Dies  
Chapter 6

_Barefield_

The caravan of Redanian soldiers had stopped for the day in a small town not far from the Dragon Mountains. Radovid and his most senior officers took rooms in the local tavern while the rest of his men set up a bivouac outside of town. In one of the smallest tents were two Redanians guarding Lydial and Malek, whose hands were not only still tied behind his back but were also secured to a large, metal stake that have been driven deep into the ground. 

Barcain crouched down and walked into the small tent, snowflakes visible in his hair and on the shoulders of his armor. He looked at the two guards. 

“You can step out. I’m going to speak with my family.”

After watching the two exit the tent, he turned back to face his uncle and grandmother.

“I have no doubt that either of you are pleased with me.”

“Yeah…some might call you a traitor,” said Malek.

“Understandable,” said Barcain, nodding his head. “Except that I would have never turned my back on Nilfgaard if it hadn’t turned its back on me first. All I ever wanted was to be like you, Uncle. To be a part of a greater cause. To belong. To serve the Empire. But it made it crystal clear that it didn’t want me. So, I found a country that did. A group that would accept me.”

“You think Radovid actually accepts you? Does he know you’re a quarter Aen Seidhe?” asked Malek. 

“He does…and he doesn’t care. Contrary to popular opinion, he doesn’t actually hate all nonhumans. He just hates the Scoia’tael. And he has good reason to. They fought on Nilfgaard’s side in the Second War. If I was a Nordling, I’d hate them, too.”

Malek shook his head. “Barcain, don’t be a fool. You can’t actually believe that he’ll let you keep the Sword.”

Barcain suddenly had a look of confusion on his face.

“Uncle, I don’t want to keep it,” he answered. “I’m not a power-hungry madman. I have no plans to rule a country on my own. I just want to play my part. That said, I do think I’ll get to use the Sword quite often. For my service to the crown, King Radovid has already promised me virtually any role I’d like. And I’ve requested a position similar to the one you played with Emhyr. In that role, I see the Sword coming in very handy.”

“That’s assuming you can find it,” said Lydial. “And there’s nothing else in the rest of the Essean scrolls as to its whereabouts.”

Barcain smiled. “That won’t be a problem, Nain. Despite what you believe, Essea’s scriptures aren’t the only texts that have answers.”

He then pulled out a small book from inside his gambeson.

“Dad’s special journal.”

“You’ve had it all along?” Lydial was incredulous.

“It’s a pretty good read. A young man named Lan writes of a really interesting story. Of an Aen Seidhe elf carrying a magical sword who got lost in the mountains. There was a blizzard and an avalanche, which destroyed the mountain pass; he took a dangerous fall into a deep gorge; he hid out in a cave until the storm passed. Then, four days later the elf comes into town and kills three of his compatriots. But, before doing so, he tells them that the sword was lost somewhere up in the mountains. The story continues, but those are the highlights. However, the journal is missing some pages – and some crucial details – like the name of the town and the name of the mountain range. But, fortunately, you provided those for me, Nain.”

He then smiled widely again. “We’re on the precipice of what could be this Continent’s most incredible discovery. I’ll get all the credit, of course, but just between us…I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“It was you,” whispered Malek. The look on his face was one of disgust and disbelief.

Barcain turned from Lydial to look at Malek.

“Come again?”

“It was you,” he repeated. “That book went missing the night your parents were killed. You did it, didn’t you? You killed Hannamiel. Your own mother.”

The smile fell from Barcain’s face. He stared at Malek but said nothing.

“Barcain?” said Lydial, her voice full of fear and uncertainty.

He looked at his grandmother and nodded. “I’m sorry, Nain. I didn’t mean to. All I wanted was the book. That’s it. I needed it…if I was going to start a new life, but my worthless, piece-of-dung father wouldn’t hand it over. I swear that man was good for nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “We struggled, and mom tried to stop us. She fell and hit her head on the desk. Killed her instantly.”

Barcain looked away, as if replaying the memory in his mind. He then looked at Malek.

“It was an accident. It can happen to anyone, right, Uncle? I mean, you know something about that, don’t you? Killing a loved one by accident.”

oOo

_Blue Mountains_

Yennefer, the raven-haired sorceress from Vengerberg, strode purposefully throughout the third-floor lab in the Aen Seidhe palace just as she’d done every day since she’d first arrived there the past summer. Each hour of each day she meticulously monitored the magic that was sustaining the dozens of elven fetuses being housed in special, glass containers. For the last several months, she’d possessed a solitary focus – to “birth” as many of those elven fetuses as she possibly could, and she knew the exact number. She’d already helped ten new lives come into the world. And though, so far, they’d all been adopted by Aen Seidhe families there at the palace, deep down in her heart, she hoped that, one day, she would be able to call one of the as-of-yet-born babies her own. 

The sorceress was not naïve, though. She clearly recognized that, while the elves were grateful for her service, they would never turn one of their own kind over to a human – much less to a witch – to raise. She knew that, in their minds, she’d never be more than “Aunt” Yennefer to any of the new infants. But that didn’t deter the sorceress – not in the least. She was too close to becoming a mother again, and she’d not let anyone or anything stop her. She was more than willing to assist the Aen Seidhe and bide her time, and then when the last baby was born, she – and it – would simply leave together. She was a powerful wielder of magic…so who could stop her? And to Yennefer’s mind, becoming a mother was simply her due. If not for her magic, then all of the fetuses would have already perished. Thus, it just made sense – she deserved the opportunity to adopt, raise, and love one of them as her own, and the thought of holding her own new-born in her arms brought a smile to the normally stern-faced woman. It was then that Yennefer was brought out of her thoughts by the door to the lab opening. 

“My pardon, Lady Yennefer,” said an elf, “but you have a visitor – the Witcher.”

The sorceress’ eyes involuntarily widened a fraction of an inch, accompanied by a short intake of breath, but she immediately regained her composure and reapplied her typical, stoic countenance. It would be unseemly for a sorceress to ever be seen as anything other than in complete control. 

oOo

Geralt sat in a large, metal chair in one of the first-floor rooms of the Dol Blathanna palace. It was, perhaps, the most uncomfortable chair that he’d ever sat in. There were no cushions; the seat seemed to incline at a strange angle; there were no arms on which to rest his elbows; and, because of his prosthetic leg, he couldn’t sit in the position in which he was accustomed. The entire situation seemed to mirror what he was feeling inside. He was starting to think that coming to the palace had been a complete mistake. 

The witcher honestly felt more unease dealing with the raven-haired sorceress than he ever did prior to facing down some post-Conjunction monster. For, at least, with the monster, he knew how to prepare. But there was no bestiary entry for one Yennefer of Vengerberg. Most of the time she displayed an ice-cold, hard, haughty shell, but she could just as easily erupt into a fiery blast of anger – many times for reasons that were completely unknown and unfathomable to him. If anybody in their tumultuous relationship had ever needed the ability to read minds, it was him and not her. Typically, when he’d been around her in the past, Geralt had been in a near-perpetual state of bewilderment and confusion by her behavior. The only thing that the witcher knew for sure about the sorceress from his decades-long, on-again, off-again relationship with her was that she seemed to only be satisfied with him when he made her the center of his universe. As long as he ensured that his life revolved completely around her and that he was at her every beck and call, then there was mostly peace between them. Of course, even then it was only most of the time. He had routinely aggravated her simply just by being himself. So much so, that he honestly wasn’t even sure why she liked having him around at all. They seemed to do nothing but bring out the worst in each other. All of that said, though, he could admit that their entire relationship hadn’t been totally unpleasant – the sex had been very passionate – but overall, the one word that came to mind when he thought of their time together was “exhausting.” 

In that moment, Geralt made up his mind to leave. He decided that he’d try to do what he needed to without Yennefer’s help after all. But just as he stood up from the chair, he heard the click-clack of heels on the marble floor coming from the other side of the room’s door. He knew that cadence of steps anywhere. Even the way she walked was distinctly and uniquely Yen-like.

“Swell,” he whispered to himself after exhaling deeply. After several long moments of silence, eventually the door to the room opened and in walked the sorceress from Vengerberg.

oOo

A battle was raging inside of Yennefer as she walked down the halls and then the stairs towards the first-floor room where Geralt awaited. She believed that she truly loved the romantically-clueless and emotionally-distant little boy hidden inside a grown man’s body, but she was also tired of him breaking her heart. Every time she lowered her defenses and let him in, he’d invariably turn and run – if not that week, then within a few months. It had happened every time. But, despite the pain he’d caused her, she was still excited by him. He had some hold on her that she just couldn’t explain. Perhaps, it was because – in spite of how she’d treated him when they’d first met - he’d still risked his life to save hers from the djinn all those years ago. She could admit that that sacrifice had made a lasting impression. While countless men had been willing to sacrifice a little – swallowing some of their masculine pride - in order to be with her, no other man in her life had ever been willing to die in order to save her. In contrast to the aloof, outward appearance that she had so carefully cultivated over the decades, she truly did long for intimacy deep down inside, and the witcher had always touched her and, at least, partially-satisfied that longing in ways that no one else ever could. 

With that thought, a small smile came to her face. She couldn’t deny it – she was looking forward to seeing Geralt again and hearing him call her “Yen.” He was the only person she allowed to do so. A tiny surge of pride and satisfaction also swelled up inside of her. She knew – despite what he’d told her after the djinn on the Skellige mountaintop had broken the magical bond between them – that the witcher would always come back to her. Even if no one else understood it, they were meant for each other. She knew that in her heart. 

Once the sorceress reached the first-floor door, she paused. She quickly brushed her hands over her outfit, smoothing out the wrinkles, and then dropped the smile from her face. Even though she was pleased that he was there, she couldn’t let him know that – at least, not at first. She needed to make him sweat things out a bit. She had to be in control – at all times – but especially when it came to her relationship with him. The raven-haired sorceress took a deep breath and then reached for the knob and opened the door.

oOo

“Greetings, Yennefer. You look fantastic,” the witcher said quickly, before the sorceress could get a word out. He was hoping that an initial compliment would set an amicable tone for the entire conversation. He was also sporting his best and most disarming smile. 

Yennefer stopped several feet from him and looked at him with a small glare. 

“Are you kidding?” he thought to himself, his smile faltering somewhat. “How could that have been the wrong thing to say?”  
  
“Hello, Geralt,” she said in a very clipped manner. “Since when did you start calling me ‘Yennefer?’”

“Uh…ever since I remembered you telling me that I’d lost the right to call you ‘Yen,’” he said, returning the small and - he hoped - ingratiating smile to his face. “Anyway, you look great.”

“Yes, you said that already. You, on the other hand…I’ve never seen your hair so short.”

He nodded, and the memory of Evie chopping off a dozen inches of his hair in the mountains above Ban Ard automatically popped into his mind. Thinking of her made his smile disappear. 

“Yeah, I cut it a few months back,” he said solemnly. 

Yennefer’s eyes narrowed again, and she was silent for a moment. 

“Really? Don’t you mean your flavor of the month cut it?” 

A flash of anger surged through the witcher because he knew that she had just read his mind again, despite the countless times he’d told her that he considered it an invasion of privacy. But instead of saying anything, he closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. 

“A gentle word turns away wrath. A gentle word turns away wrath. A gentle word turns away wrath,” he said to himself over and over again. 

The last thing he wanted right now was to fight with her. Eventually, he exhaled deeply and opened his eyes. 

“Let’s try this again, shall we? How are you, Yen? You’re looking well.” 

“Why are you here, Geralt?” she asked with a definite icy tone. “You’ve made it crystal clear that…” But she suddenly cut off her thought mid-sentence. “What exactly do you want with me? I know you didn’t just pop in to say hello.”

“Fine. If that’s how you want it,” he answered with a nod. “Are you proficient in sanguimancy?”

She gave him a hard stare. “Really, Geralt? Every average graduate of Aretuza has mastered that…and I am clearly not average.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he replied, holding both hands up. “I should have known better than to question your skills. I was just making sure.”

“Your inquiry does surprise me, though. I thought your sensibilities were too delicate to deal in blood magic.”

“Now you’re just being difficult, Yen. You know very well that it’s necromancy – black magic – that I’ve got an issue with. I don’t want you to try to raise the dead. I just need you to find someone for me.”

A snide look creased the sorceress’s face. 

“Let me guess – your little flavor of the month ran off with someone else.” 

Geralt didn’t say anything for, again, he felt a spark of anger. He just clenched his jaws tightly and did his best to control his breathing. This witch had a special gift for getting under his skin. He just stared at his former lover, and as he studied her face, his anger suddenly disappeared and he was overcome with sadness. The woman in front of him had been blessed with so much, and yet, she was so damn miserable. He wondered if she’d ever truly known peace and joy and contentment in her heart. Everywhere she went, women were jealous of her beauty just as men were drawn to it. An untold number of people would have literally killed to have the type of power that she possessed. But instead of focusing on the gifts she had and being grateful for those blessings, she chose to allow bitterness to consume her. Bitterness over the things done to her. Bitterness over the things she couldn’t have. And, throughout her life, that hardness had driven virtually everyone away from her – had always kept people at a distance. Other than himself and Ciri, he wasn’t sure that Yennefer had ever truly had any real friends in life. In all the time that they’d known each other, Geralt could think of only one person who Yennefer honestly considered a friend – Triss – and even she’d ended up betraying the raven-haired sorceress by pursuing him. It was actually all very sad when he thought about it.

For the first time in his life, the witcher was seeing Yennefer as she truly was. On the inside, she was still the same, broken little girl with the humpback and the abusive father that she’d always been. A scared and angry little girl railing against the unfairness of life, truly believing that somehow life “owed” her everything she wanted. And because she couldn’t get what she wanted, then she’d simply make everyone else around her as miserable as she was.

Despite the epiphany he was having about Yennefer, it wasn’t making him judgmental. Rather, it was making him sad and empathetic because he, too, had felt the same way at various times in his life – bitter at having never known his family; bitter over having no choice in becoming a witcher; bitter over his sterility, over being an outcast; over the loss of his loved ones; and bitter, too, over the unfairness of life. Geralt suddenly felt overwhelmed by Essea’s grace. The witcher knew that, had God not reached down and placed some of his “light” or “goodness” inside of him, he’d be just like the woman across from him – completely jaded, joyless, friendless, and without any real hope in the world that life could be better.

Geralt shook his head slowly as he looked at the sorceress.

“You know, Yen, it doesn’t have to be this hard.”

She furrowed her brow at him. “What doesn’t?”

“Life…relationships…they don’t have to be this difficult. Kindness isn’t a weakness.”

A look of condescension came to Yennefer’s face. 

“I know you’ve always fancied yourself somewhat of a philosopher – dispensing your pseudo-intellectual pearls of wisdom to the naïve peasant-girls that you so love to bed down, but, please, Witcher – _you_ giving relationship advice? That is rich. Don’t forget to whom you’re speaking. I’m not one of your random bed-warmers. I actually know you. You’d rather fight a dozen zeugls than to ever actually commit to anyone…so don’t talk to me about relationships.”

Geralt just stared at his one-time love, a variety of responses running through his mind. In the past, he would have chosen a sarcastic barb, and even now, one had automatically come to mind. More so, he could’ve told her about Evie. Told the sorceress that she didn’t know him as well as she thought because he’d actually given the historian his heart and taken her as a wife, but he knew that would have hurt Yennefer deeply, and the last thing he desired was to get into one of their epic fights - even though he was quite sure that that’s what she wanted. Over the years, he’d learned that, in her twisted psyche, Yennefer somehow equated fighting with showing that you cared. To her, it meant that the couple was passionate – or some other such nonsense. He figured it somehow had to do with the abusive home in which she was raised. Regardless, he didn’t have the energy to deal with it anymore.

He reached up and smoothed down the stubble on his jaw with his hand, trying to give himself a fraction more time for the calmness to wash over him before he opened his mouth. Finally, he nodded several times and let out a small sigh.

“I have clearly angered you. I apologize for that. That was not my intention,” he said, and then he turned and grabbed his cane from where it was resting against a nearby desk before looking back at the sorceress. “I’m sorry I bothered you, Yen. I’ll show myself out.” 

And then he began limping towards the door, using the cane for support.

Just before he reached the threshold, Yennefer spoke, “Geralt, what happened to your leg?”

He paused, facing the doorway, and bit back the snide remark that naturally came to mind. 

Instead, he turned around and said simply, “Just an accident.”

“Well, let me see it. Perhaps I can help you.” There was still no tenderness in her voice.

The witcher looked down at his leg and when he looked back up at Yennefer, she saw a wistful smile on his face. He then took his cane and rapped it twice against his right leg just below the knee. There was the unmistakable sound of wood hitting wood, which made the sorceress gasp.

“You’re a powerful sorceress, Yen, but I don’t think that even you can regrow a new leg.”

oOo

“Give me the vial of blood,” Yennefer ordered as she stood in front of a table covered with a variety of bowls and beakers filled with all type of substances. 

She and Geralt were in a large room of the Aen Seidhe palace that served as both the sorceress’ living quarters and her personal laboratory. It had taken Yennefer a few moments to get over the shock of Geralt’s injury, but once she did, she found it in herself to assist the witcher. 

As Geralt handed over the vial, she asked, “Just how old is the blood?”

He paused for a moment while he did some mental calculations. 

“Well over a month.”

A displeased look crossed the sorceress’ face. “And I assume that it hasn’t been under magical stasis during that time nor been, at the very least, kept in cold environments.”

He nodded. “You’d assume right.”

“Well, then, I won’t guarantee the results. Magical experiments are only as good as the ingredients used. Someone as knowledgeable about alchemy as you are should know that.”

“Duly noted – anything goes wrong…it’s not your fault. I still need you to do this for me.”

Yennefer uncorked the vial and made a face at what she saw and smelled. 

“It’s worse than I thought, but I suppose we’ll just have to make do.”

While the sorceress went about the process of preparing for the experiment, Geralt found a nearby chair and sat down. She scraped the dried blood out of the vial and put it into a large bowl. Then, she meticulously measured out various ingredients and added each one to the bowl, as well.

“So, was I correct in that you’re looking for your…friend – the history professor?” she asked as she continued to work.

“No, Yen, you were not. She’s dead. That’s her blood.” 

Yennefer momentarily paused and glanced at Geralt out of the corner of her eye, but then she immediately went back to measuring out ingredients. 

“I’m looking for her grandmother,” he continued.  
  
“And she’s your friend’s closest relative?”

“No, her brother is.”

“Well, then Geralt, we’re wasting our time,” Yennefer said, turning from the table and looking straight at the witcher. “This spell is going to show you her closest blood-relative.”

“I know,” he said with a nod. “But I’m betting that they’re still together so…if I find him, then I should find her.”

“Does this have anything to do with what happened to your leg?”

He nodded again. “They’re related.”

“And you’re still not going to tell me what it’s about?”

“Too many people have died already. I don’t want to bring you into the middle of it.”

“And if I refuse to help you if you don’t tell me?”

“Well, that wouldn’t surprise me. I know you don’t like secrets.”

“But you still wouldn’t tell me?”

“I’d ask that you trust me – that I have your best interest at heart. Wouldn’t matter if you knew what it’s about anyway. You’ve gotta stay here because of those fetuses on the third-floor, right?”

“Right – which means, then, that there’s no harm in telling me,” she answered with a small smile.

The witcher gave a small smile in return. “Well played.”

Over the next ten minutes, Geralt gave Yennefer a very abridged and very watered-down version of the events of the last four months. He told her that they’d been searching for an old, Aen Seidhe artifact, but he didn’t tell her any specifics - that it was tied to a prophecy or that it could conceivably possess the power to destroy nations. He knew that she knew he wasn’t being 100% forthcoming, but, frankly, that was something they were both used to. Throughout their nearly thirty-year relationship, neither of them had ever truly opened up completely to the other. 

By the time the witcher was done telling his story, Yennefer had finished with her preparations. She held a bowl in front of her that contained a large amount of a flaky, dry material. 

“What’s next?” asked the witcher, nodding towards the bowl in her hands. 

“Well, there are different sanguimancy rituals and spells that can be used for locating purposes, but, given the condition of the blood sample that you gave me, then I think this will give us the best results. I’ll give you a wet towel to cover your head, and you’ll lean over the bowl as the incense is burning. It’ll help if you try to meditate, too. I’ll also cast a hypnotic spell over your mind. All of that together, should allow you to glimpse a vision of who you’re looking for.”

“So, I’ll only see her closest blood-relative, right?”

“Initially, you may see several people, but, yes, the spell should quickly focus on the individual who has the closest blood-connection to your friend.”

Geralt nodded. “Alright. Then, I’m ready.”

oOo

Fifteen minutes later, Yennefer was watching Geralt, sitting in a chair, his forearms on the table in front of him as he leaned over the bowl of burning incense. Suddenly, the witcher jerked his head upward quickly, coming out of the magical vision. He took the towel off his head, sat up straight in the chair, and slowly shook his head back and forth. His brow was furrowed and he had a look of confusion on his face. 

“What’s wrong?” asked Yennefer.

Geralt looked her in the eyes. “Are you sure you prepared the blood correctly?”

The sorceress’ only response was raising an eyebrow at the witcher. 

“Right,” said Geralt. “Sorry, it’s just that…the vision was off.”

“How so?”

“At first, it was like you said. I saw several people – folks I’ve never seen before. I’m assuming Evie’s relatives. And then the vision quickly showed me Lydial and Barcain – her grandmother and brother. At that point, I assumed it worked perfectly and I started studying the land around them, looking for identifying markers. But, then, her uncle came into focus, and the vision stayed on him until it finally ended.”

“I guarantee you that I did not make a mistake. If there was any error in the vision, it was because of the tainted blood you brought me.”

Geralt was quiet for a while, staring off into space. Then, he nodded his head several times and looked at Yennefer. 

“Well, I don’t guess it really matters,” he said, but the look on his faced showed that he wasn’t entirely sure of that. “All three of them were together, in the same area. And, most importantly, I think I recognized their location. They’re just outside of a town that I’ve been to many times.”

“So, back on the Path then?”

“Yeah, they’re at least a week’s hard-ride away. Now that I know where they are, I should leave immediately.”

“You know,” said the sorceress with a smile, “I could open a portal for you. And yes, I know you hate them, but it’d get you there faster. Who knows where they’ll be a week from now, right?”

Geralt looked at Yennefer and narrowed his eyes. “Yen, I know you too well. You’re up to something.”

A scowl came to her face and she shook her head. 

“Typical, Witcher. You have no problem using me when it suits your needs, but if go out of my way to show kindness, you suddenly turn suspicious and run away. So, go ahead, Witcher, run away like you’ve always done.” She shook her head again. “And you presumed to give me advice on relationships.”

“Alright, alright,” growled the witcher. “You made your point. I’m sorry. You’re right - I should trust you.” Then, he nodded his head to himself. “I’ll have to leave my horse here, but a portal would be handy. And I could always acquire one of their horses.” He then looked at the sorceress. “Okay. I’ll take your portal.”

Ten minutes later, Yennefer watched Geralt limp through her magical portal with his sword in one hand, his cane in the other, and his saddle bags over his right shoulder. 

As soon as the portal closed, she immediately turned and strode purposefully back to her living quarters inside the palace. She shut and locked the door and then approached her megascope.   
  
Yennefer fiddled with the crystals, and then, a moment later, a semi-blurry image of a person appeared in the air in between the three points of her megascope.

The raven-haired sorceress spoke to the vision in front of her.

“I have no doubt that you’re surprised to hear from me, but something has come up. We need to speak – in person. I am opening a portal and coming through.”


	39. Chapter 39

Book 3: The Wolf Dies  
Chapter 7

_The Dragon Mountains_

“Your Grace,” said a soldier, bowing low, “we have found a cave.”

“Good, good, it is about time,” responded Radovid, standing along a very old trail, high above a deep gorge, as thick snowflakes filled the air.

The near four-score of soldiers had been scouring the mountain gorge most of the day. Finally, less than an hour before, a cave entrance had been found on one end of the ravine. It had been mostly covered with rocks, soil, and a thin blanket of new snow, but a handful of soldiers with shovels had taken care of those obstacles. 

The Redanian monarch then turned to look at the tall man beside him.

“Would you like to lead the exploration of the cave, Barcain?”

He gave a bow of his head. “You honor me, Your Majesty.”

“I do know how to reward my faithful servants.”

“And your servant hopes to place the Sword in your hands before the sun rises – on both a new day and on a new northern empire.”

Radovid smiled. “I like your way with words, Barcain. Let’s hope your actions don’t disappoint.”

oOo

The witcher was lying on the forest floor, and the branches of an evergreen tree - weighed down by the recent, heavy snowfall – were hanging low, giving him concealment from his prey. Not that there was much need for concealment given that it was well after sundown. He was shivering slightly from the cold, but, fortunately, his mutations and a special elixir were protecting him from developing hypothermia. His thick, heavy cloak would have helped in the fight against the frigid temperature, but he was using it for another purpose at the moment. He peered down the ridge to the campsite below - a campsite consisting of a handful of tents set up in a circle, all arranged around a large, blazing fire. Just outside the perimeter of the tents, more than a dozen horses were tied to a thick rope pulled taught between two trees. Next to the horses were a couple of covered wagons, positioned in a way to act as a barrier against the biting wind.

After he’d had Yennefer teleport him a mile south of Barefield, Geralt had then spent the next two days stealthily tracking the large Redanian contingent northward, past the ruins of a small town that had once been named Chiava and then further up into the Dragon Mountains, themselves. Earlier that morning, the caravan had finally reached a point where the wagons could no longer travel. About two dozen soldiers had stayed behind and made camp while the rest of them continued higher toward the mountain peaks. Since then, he’d been conducting a thorough reconnaissance on the campsite and, then, after developing his plan, all he’d had to do was wait. 

Unfortunately, the Redanians were not following his plan. The witcher gazed down at the campsite through the darkness once more. Instead of heading into their tents to sleep, well over half of the soldiers were still huddled around the campfire sharing several bottles of – what he assumed to be – the finest Redanian herbal. His eyes zeroed in on one person, in particular. He watched the person light a small torch in the campfire and then make their way into a small tent. 

“Damn it,” he whispered to himself. 

The tent that the person had entered was on the “wrong” side of the camp – on the side opposite to the path heading back down the mountain. 

Geralt laid there for several moments longer, trying to decide what to do. Finally, he realized that he had to act. There was no telling when Radovid and the rest of his men might return from their foray higher up in the mountains. The witcher crawled out from underneath the tree and then reached back and grabbed his balled-up cloak, a cloak that was much, much heavier than normal. He brought both of his hands together and made a Sign. Suddenly, the witcher disappeared, including the frost from his breath. He then made his way as quietly as possible down the slope towards the tent on the “wrong” side of the camp.

oOo

Barcain lowered his torch and peered as far down into chasm as he could, but all he saw was blackness. For the last couple of hours, he’d led over fifty men through the caves, searching every nook and cranny for the Sword before eventually making their way to the back of the cave. Barcain stood at the edge of the abyss and then tossed his torch forward, watching it fall for several seconds before finally landing on the cave floor close to a hundred feet below. 

He turned to face the soldier behind him.

“I’m going to need ten to twelve more torches and a very long rope,” he commanded.

oOo

Malek looked up as the tent flap was pulled back, and Lydial walked in with a lit torch in her hand.

“Oh, dear,” gasped Lydial. “Your face looks awful.”

“Then it looks like how I feel,” he mumbled through bloody and busted lips.

“Why did they do this?”

Malek, lying on the ground and trussed up like a pig with both his hands and feet tied behind him, simply shrugged. 

“I don’t blame them. I’m the enemy,” he said. “I represent the Empire that destroyed their country. At least, they let me keep my winter clothes. I’d freeze to death otherwise.”

Lydial knelt down next to the big man, jammed the torch into the ground, scooped up a handful of snow, and packed it tight. She pulled a handkerchief from the inside of her coat and wrapped it around the snow before placing it gently onto his swollen, left cheek.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, his teeth slightly chattering.

“You may be the enemy, but it doesn’t mean they can’t treat you with dignity.”

Malek looked intently into Lydial’s eyes and gave a small smile. 

“I see where Hannamiel got her kindness from.” 

“Yes, well…Dilis was even kinder,” she said with an embarrassed smile of her own. “Now, maybe you can repay the kindness and let me stay in here with you tonight.”

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing. I just…I just don’t like the way some of them out there were starting to look at me.”

Malek’s face suddenly turned very serious.

But, before either of them could say anything else, they both heard a noise coming from behind them.

oOo

A yard from the bottom, Barcain let go of the rope, and a moment later his feet landed on the chasm floor. He then quickly moved over to one of the still-lit torches, picked it up, and looked around. The chasm was huge, with large rocks and stalagmites scattered about. 

He turned as he heard noise coming from above him. He walked back over to the wall of the abyss and watched one of the Redanians using the rope to repel down the side. Within a minute, a half-a-dozen soldiers were with him. 

“Let’s spread out. Call out if you find anything,” he ordered, and then he and the others dispersed in different directions.

The southerner slowly walked forward, holding the flaming torch above his head. Despite the fire in his hand, he felt a chill go through him, and he quickly swiveled his head from side-to-side. It was as if the darkness was pressing in on him from all sides. 

Suddenly, his foot stumbled against something hard and heavy, and he fell to the ground with a whispered curse. He rolled over and directed the light of the torch toward the chasm floor. Barcain involuntarily held his breath at what he saw. He quickly looked around him to see if any of the Redanians were nearby, and then he scrambled forward on his knees.

Breathing fast and heavy, Barcain looked down at a long, metal case – a case that could very well hold a sword. Still on his knees, he inspected the grimy and dirt-covered box. He placed the torch, upright against a nearby rock and then began frantically brushing the dust and dirt from the box. Despite the chill in the air, beads of sweat were now running down his brow. The case was dented and scratched in several places, but it looked to be completely intact and held shut by three clasps on one of its sides. 

He quickly looked up and around him again to see where the Redanian soldiers were. He smiled upon seeing that they were nowhere near him. He wanted to experience the opening of the case all by himself. He wanted to be the first and only one to gaze upon the Sword for the first time in over a thousand years. He had earned that privilege. There’d be time later for others to sing his praises. With slightly trembling hands, he reached forward, unlatched the clasps, and slowly opened the metal box.

oOo

Lydial watched wide-eyed as a small rip mysteriously appeared on the back side of the tent, starting at the top of the canvas and slowly moving its way down. The opening then widened, and a moment later, she heard the sound of crunching snow coming towards her. 

The footsteps in the snow stopped right in front of her, and then she heard a muffled – but familiar - voice.

“Don’t scream, Lydial. It’s me – Geralt.”

A look of disbelief filled her face as she slowly reached out a shaky hand toward the voice. She gasped as she felt an invisible hand gently grip her own, and immediately, the witcher materialized in front of her eyes. She couldn’t say anything for several moments. She could only stare at the man before her.

“I…I thought you were dead,” she finally whispered. 

He nodded. “I thought I was, too.” The two stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. “Come on, I’m getting you out of here,” he said as he gripped her hand tighter and began to turn back towards the opening in the canvas.

“Wait,” she whispered, tugging on his hand. 

The witcher looked back at the elf. 

“Evangeline?” she asked.

The look on Geralt’s face immediately changed, and then he simply gave a small shake of his head. 

A small sob broke free from Lydial’s throat, and she quickly brought her free hand up to cover her mouth as the tears filled her eyes. 

“Lydial, let’s go,” urged Geralt. “We can cry later.”

She looked into his tender eyes and nodded. She was just about to follow him out through the back exit of the tent when she saw the witcher’s face turn murderous. He let go of her hand and rushed past her. He grabbed Malek roughly by the front of his coat and put the tip of his knife an inch from the eye of his wife’s killer. 

Malek stared into the witcher’s eyes and then at the knife that was trembling in his hand. He then looked back at Geralt and saw a war of emotions across his face. 

Malek then just gave a small nod of his head. 

“I didn’t mean to kill her, Geralt. But go ahead and do it,” he said calmly. “I deserve it.” 

The two men continued to stare at each other until, finally, the witcher’s jaws unclenched and he exhaled deeply. He then gave a small nod of his own.  
  
“We all deserve it,” he said, before rolling Malek over and cutting through the ropes binding his wrists and ankles. 

Before Malek could completely free himself of his bonds, Geralt had already grabbed Lydial and had exited the tent. The big man quickly followed right behind them, crouching low and stepping through the opening. 

“What’s in your coat?” Lydial whispered, looking down at the heavy cloak that he’d left outside the tent. It was bunched up, like a bundle, and there was clearly something alive inside. 

“A surprise for them,” he answered, nodding his head in the direction of the Redanians by the campfire. 

“What’s the plan?” asked Malek.

Geralt didn’t even bother to look at the big man.

“I’ll get some horses and bring them back here,” he said, looking at Lydial. “Then, I’m going to cause a serious distraction, and you’re going to ride hard, past the camp and down the mountain. Hopefully, I’ll be waiting for you on the other side of the camp, and then we can get the hell out of here.” 

“Down the mountain?” Lydial asked. “Don’t you mean up? That’s where Barcain, and Radovid, and all his men went. That’s where the Sword is.”

Geralt shook his head. “No. We’re going down.”

“What? You’re okay with them getting the Sword?”

“They’re not going to find the Sword, Lydial. I -”

“But they are,” she interrupted, an urgent tone in her voice. “Barcain has Holsted’s journal. It gives a description of its location.”

The witcher peered into the elf’s eyes for a long moment. 

“Lydial,” he said calmly. “Do you trust me?”

She stared back and then let out a small sigh. 

“Yes, of course.”

The witcher gave a small nod. 

“Okay…then let’s get off this mountain.”

oOo

Barcain lowered the torch to the open case, and then he, himself, leaned over to get a closer look. Inside the box was a very long and slender object wrapped up in different types of cloth, though most of the cloth was disintegrated. He reached out and began to pull the cloth away to reveal a sword inside its rusty sheath. The air seemed to go out of Barcain as he got his first glimpse, and the smile fell from his face. The sword and sheath looked very unimpressive.

“Well, who cares what it looks like,” he whispered to himself. “I only care how it handles.” 

He placed the torch to his side and reached down with both hands – one grasping the scabbard. Just as his right hand was about to grip the sword’s handle he paused, for he heard a loud yell echoing down into the chasm from up above. He jerked his head upward and squinted into the darkness. He heard more and more shouts in the distance, and then, to his surprise, he heard yelling getting closer and closer and coming fast. His eyes went wide as he realized someone was falling towards the chasm floor. Suddenly, the approaching shout stopped as a body smashed into the rocky ground nearby. Barcain was breathing fast, wondering just what the hell was happening up above. 

Whatever it was, he knew it wasn’t good. Now, more than ever, he needed the Sword. He turned back towards the box, knelt down, and grasped the hilt with his right hand and quickly unsheathed the blade. He paused, staring at the sword, expecting something fantastic to happen – expecting a sense of magic or power to pulsate through his body. Instead, there was nothing. With a look of confusion on his face, he then swung the sword through the air and then thrust the blade forward, all the while picturing a deadly curse exploding from its tip. But the only explosion he heard was the sound of another Redanian soldier’s body smashing against the chasm floor after falling from above. 

A moment later, the rest of the soldiers at the bottom of the abyss gathered together close to Barcain, the yells of their falling comrades getting their attention and drawing them near. 

“What the hell is going on?” asked one.

“We gotta get up there!” shouted another, as he moved towards the rope.

Quickly the others followed him and began climbing up towards the top, but Barcain simply stood still – too in shock over the sword’s apparent lack of power. 

“I don’t understand,” he whispered to himself, looking down at the blade in his hand. 

Was there something that he needed to do to activate the Sword’s abilities? Was this even the actual Sword of Destruction? But, if not, then where was it? It was impossible that anyone had it. Otherwise, they’d have been using it during the last millennium. 

“Was the whole damn thing a hoax?” he whispered. 

Barcain was suddenly pulled from his thoughts by screams coming from above. He quickly backpedaled as the five soldiers who had just ascended the rope came falling out of the darkness to their deaths on the rocks of the chasm floor. A moment later, he noticed that the rope itself fell to the floor, as well. It had either snapped or been cut.

And, then, the cavern went quiet. The southerner heard no more screams. There was no shouting nor any noise of battle coming from above. And, then, he heard it – a skittering sound coming down the chasm wall. With a shaky hand, he raised the torch above him and squinted into the darkness. He saw the fire reflecting off something that was crawling down towards him, and whatever they were, they were approaching fast. Before he even had the chance to turn and run, he heard a rustling sound, and suddenly, he yelled out as his vision was filled with an apparition-like whiteness.

oOo

“Vladimir, pass the bottle,” ordered one of the Redanians sitting around the campfire on a large log. 

As he was reaching for the bottle, he noticed something in his peripheral vision. He quickly turned his head to see a large, dark object flying straight at him. The object hit him in the chest, knocking him off his log and causing him to let out a yelp. He – along with his comrades – quickly scrambled to their feet and gazed at a large, black cloak balled up near the campfire. Suddenly, the cloak opened up and out jumped three, very angry Rodospinas – more commonly known as thorny, mountain-badgers. And chaos ensued.

The Rodospinas were not large – about the size of a very large cat – but they were fierce and covered with sharp, spear-like spines that they could powerfully expel from their bodies when attacked, which they did in that moment. Several of the soldiers yelled out in pain as the little creatures’ spines shot through the air and pierced their necks and faces, and one unfortunate Redanian fell backward into the campfire. Several of his friends tried to pull him from the flames while his screams of agony added to the confusion. 

At the same time, an incredibly loud explosion occurred about halfway between where the horses where tied up and the blazing campfire. Several minutes before, the witcher had sliced through the rope to which the horses were all tied, so when his Samum bomb detonated, it not only temporarily stunned and blinded the Redania soldiers but it also frightened their mounts. The horses immediately scattered – all of them hightailing it from the campsite.

As soon as he saw the horses fleeing down the mountain, the witcher – on the opposite side of the camp from where he’d freed Lydial – cast an Igni and set the tent next to him on fire. Then, as fast as he could – half-running and half-hopping along on his wooden leg - he began heading towards the rendezvous point, pausing only long enough to set each subsequent tent on fire as he passed by them. 

Within a minute, Geralt was near the trail that led down the mountain, and he saw Lydial and Malek on horseback riding fast in his direction. Malek had an extra set of reins in his hand and was leading a spare horse for the witcher. Geralt began climbing up the embankment towards the trail but, suddenly fell down, face first in the snow, when he stepped into a deep snow drift. As he was scrambling to get to his feet, he saw several Redanians out of the corner of his eye. They had just stepped out of the campsite and had their crossbows aimed at the backs of Lydial and Malek. Before he even had a chance to yell a warning, the soldiers fired their weapons. 

Lydial’s horse let out a horrible scream as one crossbow bolt penetrated its hindquarter and another pierced a back leg, and the mount instantly crashed to the ground, tossing the she-elf into the air. Malek had just seen Geralt step out of the shadows and hop onto the trail when he heard Lydial’s horse bellow behind him, and he turned in the saddle to see Lydial landing hard, a huge cloud of snow billowing into the air around her. He immediately turned back towards the witcher and threw the reins of the extra horse towards him, and then he spurred his horse back in Lydial’s direction. 

Malek’s eyes were shifting rapidly from Lydial – who was just standing up – to the half-dozen soldiers near the campsite who were busily re-cocking their crossbows and aiming in his and Lydial’s direction. His eyes went wide as, suddenly, three of the soldiers were mysteriously lifted off their feet and tossed head-over-end into the darkness. The big man tugged the reins to the right, and as soon as he had passed Lydial – who was now running down the slope – he pulled back and to the left – spinning his horse on a button. He snapped the reins, and the horse’s hooves dug into the snow and soil and shot forward – back in the direction from which he’d just come. Malek leaned down in the saddle, and as his mount passed by the fleeing she-elf, the big man scooped her up in his left arm like she was nothing more than a rag-doll and pulled her in front of him on top of the horse. 

The witcher was now in the saddle of his mount and watching Malek’s incredible skill of horsemanship. Geralt’s eyes drifted over the southerner’s shoulder to see a handful of soldiers aiming their crossbows in his and Lydial’s direction. Just like before, they were suddenly and mysteriously lifted off their feet and flung through the air a great distance away. However, one of the Redanians was able to let loose with his crossbow just as he was being tossed through the air, and the bolt drove right into the backside of Malek’s left shoulder. 

“What the hell?” whispered the witcher, as he furrowed his brow at what he’d just seen.

But he didn’t have time to pause and contemplate it because, a second later, Malek and Lydial blew past him on their horse. He glanced quickly at the Redanian camp, where he could hear frantic yelling coming from several directions. His eyes took in the flames rising high from the soldiers’ tents, causing shadows to dance all across the tall mountain trees. He scanned the darkness one final time and then immediately turned and rode after Lydial, leaving the burning Redanian camp in his wake.

oOo

Barcain was lying completely immobilized on the chasm floor, and he was covered from chest to ankle in an incredibly strong net consisting of a white, sticky, string-like substance. No matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t free himself. In fact, the harder he struggled and the more that he tried to move, the more entangled it seemed that he became. So, he finally just stopped and lay still, waiting for his death.

“It’s not fair,” he thought to himself. All that he’d ever wanted was to make a difference, like his uncle Malek. 

There were still a handful of lit torches strewn about on the ground, and he lifted his head to watch the unknown creatures hidden by the darkness coming in his direction. He swallowed hard as he could hear noises getting nearer and nearer – sounds that, without a doubt, could only be produced by post-Conjunction creatures. 

Even though he was expecting monsters, his eyes still went wide and he sucked in his breath as several large, black, hairy spiders – each the size of a horse - became visible in the light of the torches. He involuntarily shivered as he saw the flames of fire reflecting off their glass-like eyes. He swallowed again and closed his eyes tightly, for he didn’t particularly want to see their jaws up close when they began their feast. But as the seconds passed, he finally realized that he couldn’t hear the monsters getting any closer.

“Open your eyes,” came a silky and somewhat regal voice coming from the direction of his feet.

Confusion immediately flooded Barcain’s mind, and he opened his eyes as ordered. He lifted his head off the chasm floor to see who – or what – had just spoken. And, then, out of the darkness crawled a monster that was straight out his nightmares. It looked like one of the cursed statues he’d seen in Aerensoska’s mausoleum back in Gearrlon – half creature and half human. 

Its lower body was no different than the giant spiders that were currently surrounding him – an enormous, black abdomen and thorax with eight, hairy legs. But, unlike the rest, this unique monster had a human chest, arms, and head protruding from the top of its body. The human parts, just like the spider portion, were also giant-sized. They looked to be at least twice the size of a normal human, and they were covered with thick, bristly, black hairs all the way up to the neck.

When Barcain looked at the creature’s face, he did a double-take. He’d seen this person before, in the caverns atop the Tir Torchair mountains. But she didn’t look exactly the same anymore. Now, her hair was wiry and stuck out of her head in every direction, and it appeared that she had fangs of some type protruding from her mouth. But it was her eyes that Barcain noticed the most. She had the same lifeless, completely black eyes of her spider brethren, and just above her two, large “human” eyes was a row of four smaller, spider eyes across her forehead. He involuntarily shuddered.

Barcain looked at the abomination before him and thought that his heart was about the explode from his chest, it was beating so fast and hard. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was completely dry.

“The witch…Eilhart?” he rasped out.

“Indeed,” Philippa answered, and then she let out a small laugh. “Perhaps, O’Dimm was right. The look on your face brings me great joy. Though…it compares nothing to what I felt when I saw the look on his face.” 

At that, she lifted one of her human hands to show the decapitated head of King Radovid the Stern. 

“This shall be a keep-sake. Even after his flesh rots off, I’ll keep his skull as a memento – a reminder of the fear in his eyes when he saw me in all my glory.” 

She then lowered the head to her side.

“But before he died, I did take extreme pleasure in torturing him. He confirmed the existence of the powerful, elven sword – that it was thought to be down in this cave.”

Eilhart then walked slowly forward until her entire body was above Barcain’s, her eight legs straddling him. She then leaned her human torso low, bringing her face down close to his. He could see dried blood on her lips and chin.

“So, did you find it?”

Barcain knew that he was a dead man – no matter what he answered, and in that moment, his thoughts suddenly turned toward his family – to Angel, Abelard, and his mother. And to his two living relatives – Lydial and Malek. Finally, he nodded his head.

“I did,” he answered, “I have it here in my hand, but it did nothing for me. There’s no power or magic in it, at all. Turns out that the whole damn thing was a joke. Nothing but a myth. People died for nothing.”

“Well, we shall see if you’re being truthful. And if you are, then I’ll simply interrogate your grandmother next.” Upon seeing the look on Barcain’s face, she laughed. “Oh, yes, Radovid revealed that he was holding her _and_ your Uncle Malek hostage on the other side of the ridge. And I am _so_ ever looking forward to having a visit with him. I’ll keep his skull as a souvenir, as well.”

Then, Philippa bent down further, just inches away from Barcain’s face. She spread her monstrous mouth wide, her fangs ready to pierce his flesh. His cries echoed throughout the cave until, finally, there was nothing but silence.


	40. Chapter 40

Book 3: The Wolf Dies  
Chapter 8

“Drink this,” ordered the witcher.

Malek, sitting on the ground and leaning back against his horse’s saddle, glanced at the vial in Geralt’s hands and then looked into the witcher’s eyes. But he didn’t reach for the potion.

“If I was gonna kill you, I’d have done it back in the mountains,” growled the witcher. “This one’s safe for humans. Now, drink it – unless you _wanna_ die.”

The southerner, with the left side of his upper torso exposed, nodded his head slightly and grabbed the vial from the witcher’s hand.

The two men and Lydial had ridden hard all night. They’d only stopped near a small creek as the sun was rising because they knew that their horses would die if they rode them any longer without a rest. Geralt didn’t know exactly where they were – just that they were in a forested area somewhere between the Dragon Mountains and northern Redania. 

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Malek asked, after downing the health potion.

Geralt was quiet for a moment, his eyes boring into Malek’s, before he finally spoke. 

“I trust that God will take care of you – one way or the other.” He then turned and continued with his preparations.

“God will take care of me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did I stutter, or are you just stupid? What’s so hard to understand?” Geralt said coldly. “God – in his justice - will either rightly punish you for all the hell you’ve done against him – including killing my wife. Or…in his mercy, he’ll forgive you…if you turn to him in repentance.” 

The witcher then shook his head. 

“Personally, the way I’m feeling right now, I hope it’s the former. Perhaps, in time, he’ll change my heart so that I’ll hope it’s the latter, but either way…it’s out of my hands.” 

Malek’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Geralt.

“So, you’re…you’re actually willing to forgive me for what I did? How? I can’t even forgive myself.”

The witcher turned his face away from Malek. He looked down to the ground, his eyes scanning – but not truly seeing - all of his alchemical ingredients laid out before him. His thoughts were elsewhere. Finally, he sighed and spoke.

“It’s probably going to take me some time. Maybe a long time. But, yeah…I’m trying to forgive you.” He then lifted his head and looked at Malek. “How can I not? I’ve offended the holy God of the universe more egregiously than you’ve ever wronged me. And, yet, he has somehow found it in himself to forgive me. If he’s willing to do that, then…how could I ever withhold forgiveness to someone else – including you?”  
  
“So…you’re a peace-loving witcher now…because you found religion?” 

Malek’s tone wasn’t mocking, just baffled, but Geralt didn’t bother to answer. He simply went back to his preparations. 

“So, if I came at you with a sword, you’d just…let me cut you down?”

The witcher slowly turned to face the big man. 

“Try it,” the monster-slayer said very calmly. “I’d love for you to.”

“Then, I’m confused, Witcher. How about you explain it to me?”

Geralt exhaled deeply. 

“It’s simple. I’ll still kill – in a heartbeat – to save a life. Especially someone else’s. But I will never kill out of vengeance again – ever. That’s God’s business. I learned my lesson. Evie is dead because -” but he didn’t finish. He just shook his head and looked away.

Malek furrowed his brow at the witcher’s words, but he didn’t say anything. He just stared closely at the white-haired man in front of him as he, again, turned his focus back to what he’d been preparing. 

Geralt then picked up a small, metal bowl that had a greasy paste in it. He moved over to Malek’s side and rubbed the paste over the shaft of the crossbow bolt that was sticking out of the back of Malek’s shoulder. He then rubbed it around the entry wound, making the big man wince a little.

“This has antiseptic properties,” Geralt said quietly, as if he was talking to himself. 

He then grabbed something from the ground next to him and held it out in front of the southerner.

“This is gonna hurt like hell,” the witcher said. “You might want to bite down on this.”

Based on the arrow’s point of entry and the angle of its shaft, Geralt had earlier calculated that the easiest course of action would be to simply push the arrow head straight through the flesh of Malek’s shoulder and out the other side. Trying to pull it out would rip his shoulder to shreds. The witcher had already broken off the end of the shaft that contained the fletchings. 

Malek gave a half-smile to the witcher and then placed the cut piece of leather in between his teeth. He bit down hard, clenched his fists, and gave a nod of his head. Geralt grabbed Malek’s shoulder with his left hand, put his right palm against the end of the broken crossbow bolt, and then shoved as hard as he could.

oOo

_Nilfgaard_

Fringilla was sitting at her bedroom table, nervously staring at the vision in the bowl when she heard a knock on her chamber door. She immediately ended the magical spell, causing the vision to disappear. She rose from the chair, cinched her robe a bit more tightly around her body, and stopped briefly in front of a mirror. More than satisfied with her magically-enhanced looks, she quickly cast a spell to freshen her breath and then continued towards the door. She opened it to find the emperor of Nilfgaard, with several of his royal guards behind him.

“May I come in, Cousin?” 

“Just you or everyone?”

Donato smiled. “I think I can trust you.” 

He then turned back to his guards. “I’ll be five minutes.”

After entering Fringilla’s living quarters, he made himself comfortable on her sofa.

“I’m glad that you finally decided to move here to the royal palace,” he said. “For a while there, I was thinking that you were trying to avoid me.”

“Not at all. I just really didn’t want to leave our family estate. You know how much I’ve always loved it.”

Donato nodded. “I do, and…speaking of family, I’ve got news for you.” 

“Are you finally sending me to Beauclair? You did promise me the duchy for my assistance.”

“I did, and I am,” he answered with a smile. “But…there has been a slight change of plans.”

Fringilla’s face remained of mask of stoicism, but her voice was icy. “What change?”

“Congratulations, Cousin. You are to be married.”

“To whom?” she asked slowly.

“To Count Petit-Durand.”

The sorceress glared at her cousin.

“I am quite familiar with the man. He is vile. I won’t do it.”

“He is…an acquired taste, I admit, but, Gilla, please understand. He’s also the wealthiest noble in all of Toussaint, and since our dear Anarietta’s untimely demise, it seems that he’s consolidated quite a bit of power within the duchy. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that he has become…the de facto ruler. In the half-year since Toussaint has been without a monarch, it seems that the nobles have become quite accustomed to being in charge. We need to make an alliance with the man – and with all the nobles and peasants that he controls. He has agreed to become your husband…and your duke.”

“How gracious of him,” she said snidely. “You’ve been emperor little more than a month, and you’re already being pushed around like a street urchin.” 

Donato’s face changed immediately, and then he slowly stood. 

“You know nothing of politics,” he spoke with steel in his voice. “I don’t want bloodshed…and we can’t afford another war at this time, anyway. Not so soon after the disaster Emhyr led us into up north. I’m giving you the chance to be the duchess of Toussaint. I don’t expect to ask you again.”

The petite sorceress also stood and looked Donato squarely in the eye. 

“He told me not to trust you,” she said, shaking her head.

“Who?” 

“Good day, Your Grace. I expect that you can see yourself out.” 

And then she turned and headed to her bedchambers, closing the door behind her. 

oOo

Malek laid back against the saddle, and he gazed down at his shoulder as Geralt quickly stitched up his anterior wound. He’d already stitched up the entry wound on the back side. The southerner had received enough stitches in his lifetime to easily recognize the witcher’s expertise, but it was also clear that he wasn’t going out of his way to be slow or gentle. 

Now that the pain receptors in his brain weren’t exploding, his mind was clear enough to ask the question that had come to him earlier. However, before he could ask his question, Geralt beat him to the punch.

“You got something magical on you. What is it?” asked the witcher as he kept stitching up the wound.

“How do you know?”

“My medallion. It’s vibrated several times.”

Malek nodded and then slowly reached up with his right hand to pull the collars of both his coat and his shirt away from his neck. Around his neck was a thin piece of leather from which dangled a small, purple amulet. 

“What is it?” asked Geralt, who had finally stopped with the medical procedure and was looking at the circular, glass-like object.

“After our encounter in Novigrad, when you hexed my mind, I asked Miss Vigo if she could craft something that might counteract your magic. I didn’t particularly like being at your mercy.”

“And yet, here you are. Your life in my hands.”

“Yeah, quite ironic.”

“Wanna see if it actually works?” asked Geralt, nodding at the amulet.

“Alright.”

The witcher cast an Axii Sign at Malek and then said, “Cluck like a chicken.”

Malek looked at Geralt, smirked, and then said, “Go cluck yourself.”

The witcher gave a nod of his head. 

“Looks like it works,” he said. “Crafting magical amulets always was one of Fringilla’s specialties.” 

He then immediately turned his attention back to Malek’s shoulder. The southerner watched Geralt continue to work for a moment, then said, “Now, I’ve got a question for you.”

The witcher just grunted.

“You explained why you didn’t kill me in the tent,” Malek started, “but ‘forgiveness’ doesn’t explain why you cut me loose. You could’ve easily left me there on that mountain. And ‘forgiveness’ doesn’t explain why you’re helping me now.” 

Geralt stopped what he was doing for just a second to stare into the large man’s eyes. He then nodded. 

“Let me finish up here, then we’ll have a nice long chat.”

Malek furrowed his brow but nodded back. 

Five minutes later, Malek wounds were stitched up and slathered in healing balm. He was fully dressed, sitting opposite Lydial, who had returned with the horses. Earlier, Geralt had told her to lead them a good distance away so that they wouldn’t get spooked by any of Malek’s painful grunts or thrashing about when the arrow was removed. 

Finally, the witcher finished putting away his gear and sat down on the ground, resting his back against a nearby tree, his right leg straight out in front of him. He stared at Malek and shook his head as a contemplative look crossed his face. 

“You know – it just dawned on me. I spent a lot of time patching up Evie, too. Kind of – I don’t know the word I’m looking for – coincidental…appropriate, maybe.”

Malek didn’t say anything. He just looked back at Geralt with a slightly confused expression on his face. He was about to respond when the witcher spoke again.

“You asked me why I’m helping you.” 

He then paused and looked up into the blue sky, partially obscured by the forest’s canopy. He closed his eyes and kept them closed for several long moments, just breathing slow and steady. Finally, he opened his eyes, exhaled deeply, and he looked back at Malek. 

“Evie was the love of my life,” he said quietly. “And I know her – know what she would’ve wanted me to do. She’d want me to show kindness and compassion…and forgiveness…to her father.”

Malek just blinked his eyes several times but didn’t say a word.

“What?” asked Lydial in a high voice. “Geralt, what are you talking about it?”

But Geralt never looked in Lydial’s direction. He just kept staring ahead right at Emhyr’s former right-hand man.

“Why didn’t you ever tell her…that you were her father?”

Malek shook his head. “I…I never knew. I suspected, but I never knew.”

He then looked away, lost in thought, before turning back to Geralt.

“Did she tell you? Is that how you know?”

The witcher shook his head. “As far as I know, she never knew, either.”

“Then how…how do you know?”

“Her blood.”

“What? I don’t…”

“I had a friend perform some magical spells on her blood in order to find Lydial. It was supposed to show Evie’s closest, blood relative, which should have been Barcain. But the vision showed you instead. Which can only mean one thing.”

Malek was breathing very heavy. “So, Evangeline…she…she really was my daughter?”

The witcher nodded back. 

Then, the look on Malek’s face changed – revealing the thought they had just come to his mind. 

“I killed my own daughter,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Geralt simply nodded again.

Malek closed his eyes and bowed his head. After a moment, he slowly got to his feet, looked at Geralt one last time, and then turned and walked off into the forest. 

oOo

_Dragon Mountains_

Philippa stood atop the ridge and looked down to the other side. She was flanked on either side by two arachnomorphs. While she had ultimately been victorious against Radovid and his nearly-one-hundred men in the mountain gorge, the battle had proven costly. The two giant spiders were all that were left of her arachnid army, and they were both making clicking noises. 

“Yes, yes, my dears,” she said in a soothing voice to both of them, “I know that you’re cold.” 

Peering down the mountain slope, she saw what looked to be smoke rising up into the clear morning air several miles away. She then smiled.

“But it looks like our prey are in sight. A nice battle, followed by a feast…that should warm you up.”

oOo

Lydial wiped the tears from her cheeks. 

“Do you think he’s going to be okay?” she asked. 

It’d been at least a half an hour since Malek had first walked off into the forest. During that time, Lydial had done a lot of crying, not only from the latest, shocking news, but also because she’d finally gotten the opportunity to ask Geralt the countless questions she had - about Evie’s last moments in the cave and about what had happened to him since she’d seen him last.

“I have no idea,” Geralt answered. “Would you be okay if you’d just found out you’d killed your own daughter?”

“No. No, I wouldn’t,” said Lydial, shaking her head. She then let out a long sigh. “Geralt, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”  
  
“Back at the campsite, you told me that the Sword wasn’t on the mountain. If you know where it is, then why did you even bother to track us down? Why didn’t you just go get it instead?”

Geralt looked back at her with a furrowed brow.

“Lydial, I tracked you down…to save you,” the witcher answered. “I, obviously, didn’t know that Barcain was serving Radovid, but I did think that he and Malek were working for Emhyr, which is just as bad, in my opinion, and I wanted to get you away from them. You’re much important to me than the Sword is. You’re…family.”  
  
Lydial smiled warmly at Geralt, and then she got up from where she was sitting and started walking towards him. Seeing her approach, Geralt got to his feet. She stopped just a foot away from him and then looked him in the eyes. 

“Thank you, Geralt. You’re a true friend.”

And then she put her arms around him and hugged him. 

The witcher stood rigid for just a moment, but eventually he closed his eyes and embraced her back. As he held her, his thoughts ran to the one place where they always ended up. To the one person that was always on his mind. And, suddenly, he felt something break inside of him. He squeezed her more tightly and tried to say something, but he couldn’t speak. The knot in his throat was so thick that he could barely breathe. 

“I miss her, Lydial,” he finally whispered. “God, how I miss her.”

Upon hearing his words and the heartache in his voice, Lydial started crying, but she didn’t let go of him. In fact, she squeezed him harder.

“She knew how much you loved her, Geralt. She knew. When you weren’t around, she and I talked about it. And she loved you so much,” said Lydial, as the tears fell. “I’d never seen her so happy – ever.” Then, she began sobbing. “Let’s…let’s hold on to that memory…of how much she loved us.” 

Geralt didn’t say anything. He just nodded, and the two of them stood there in the forest, just hugging each other tightly and not saying another word – because there was really nothing else they needed to say.

oOo

Thirty minutes later Geralt and Lydial were still waiting for Malek to return. During that time, they’d rubbed down their horses and led them back to the stream to get another drink of water. Geralt was repacking his saddle bags and placing them back on his horse when Lydial asked, “So, what do we do now? Do we go after the Sword? Do you even know where it is?”

“That’s something I’d like to know, too,” said Malek, who had just walked up on the two.

Geralt almost laughed at him. “Like I’d tell you. Just because I’m doing my best to forgive you doesn’t mean I trust you.”

Malek nodded. “Then…let me earn your trust.”

“And just how do you propose to do that?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, shaking his head. “But you’ve got to let me help.”

“Yeah? And why’s that?”

“For Evangeline. Please…let me make it up to her. I’ve wasted my whole life…fighting for the wrong thing – for Nilfgaard instead of for the people I love. I should’ve fought for Hannamiel all those years ago. She and I loved each other, but she wouldn’t leave Holsted, even though it was a completely loveless marriage. She said that she knew my career would be over if I married a half-elf, and that she wouldn’t let me throw my career away. But, damn it, I should have fought for her, showed her that we were meant to be together, no matter the cost. And I should’ve fought for Evangeline.” 

He looked intently at Lydial and then back at Geralt. 

“This may be sad to say, but…you two are the closest thing to family that I have left. Let me come with you, please. I promise you - I’ll never pick the wrong side again.”

Geralt was quiet for a long time. Finally, he turned to Lydial.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve gotten to know him fairly well in the last month. I…I think he’s being sincere.” 

The witcher shook his head and sighed. Then, he looked up towards the sky. 

“Swell,” he whispered to himself. 

He then looked at Malek and nodded his head. 

“Fine. You can come along.”

Malek looked Geralt intently in the eyes and nodded back. He then walked forward and extended his hand. 

“Thank you, Geralt.”

The witcher paused for a moment – his eyes shifting between Malek’s face and his outstretched hand. Finally, he nodded back and then slowly grasped Malek’s hand and shook. 

“Yeah…I just hope this doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass.”

“Me, too,” agreed Malek, with a small smile. “So, where are we heading?”

Geralt shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”

“What?” asked Lydial. “I thought you knew.”

Geralt just shook his head.

“Then, how do you know the Sword isn’t actually back there, in the Dragon Mountains?”

The witcher raised his eyebrows slightly. 

“It’s a pretty unbelievable tale.”

For the next ten minutes, Geralt recounted to Lydial and Malek the events that had happened during the storm atop the Tir Torchair mountains. He explained the appearance of the mysterious, light-emitting butterfly and how it miraculously was able to fly through the raging wind and rain until it landed right on his outstretched hand. He told them of how it then led him back into the cavern, down into the abyss, and to the small scroll next to the Aen Seidhe corpse that had held all the other Essean scrolls. 

“So, I have no idea what Essea wants me to do with the Sword, but I am convinced that he wants me to find it…because there is no earthly explanation for the existence of that little, glowing butterfly. That had to be from God,” said Geralt, finishing up his story.

“Do you still have the scroll?” asked Lydial excitedly.

Geralt shook his head. “It got destroyed when I fell in a river.”

“But you remember what it said?” asked Malek.

“Yeah, it wasn’t very long. Just a few sentences. Though, it was in the older version of the Elder speech so there were a handful of words I just couldn’t decipher. But I think I got the gist of it. It was written by some elf named Maccarreg who -”

Lydial gasped, interrupting him. “Maccarreg was one of the sons of Gaineamh, the Aen Seidhe prophet and priest!”

“Alright, if you say so,” said Geralt. “Anyway, he had the Sword in his possession. He wrote that he was on his way to toss it into the ocean but that he’d received a vision from Essea while he was up in the Dragon Mountains. Told him not to destroy the Sword, but - and here’s the part I don’t understand – to hide it in some woman’s belly.”

“Well, that doesn’t make any sense,” said Malek. 

“Yeah, I know.”

“Are you sure you read it right?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Wait, Geralt,” said Lydial. “Do you remember exactly what it said?”

“Yeah. Maccarreg wrote that he hid the Sword in Dealande’s womb. I’m assuming Dealande is a woman. I don’t know of any males that have wombs.”

“Dealande? That means ‘butterfly’ in the older variant of the Elder Speech,” said Lydial.

“Well, that makes even less sense,” said Malek. “How did he hide a sword in a butterfly’s stomach?”

“Wait!” Lydial said suddenly. Then, she quickly reached into her satchel and pulled out a thick scroll. She looked at both men, and a small smile came to her face.

“I stole it while Barcain wasn’t looking. I couldn’t get all the scrolls back, but I, at least, got this one.”

She then began skimming quickly through the pages. After a few minutes, she stopped, her finger in mid-page, and looked at Geralt.

“I was right,” she said, with a big smile. “Dealande was the name of the mountain on top of which sat the original Holy Temple of Essea. The temple that the Aen Seidhe originally built after Essea first brought them to the Continent from across the Great Sea.”

“So, he hid the Sword inside the mountain?” asked Malek.

Lydial shrugged. “I…I don’t know.”

“Does it say where this mountain is located exactly?” asked Geralt, nodding at the scroll. “Or about it having a ‘womb?’”

“Give me second,” she said, before skimming through the scroll again.

Eventually, after a few minutes, she looked up, a frown on her face.

“No, there’s nothing here about a ‘womb’ or a ‘stomach.’ And it doesn’t give an exact location either, but it does mention that it’s in the southern part of the land, in between two large rivers. And it doesn’t appear that it was part of a large mountain chain. It was an isolated hill surrounded by a few, smaller hills. It had a river flowing down from it. And that it got its name because of the hundreds – if not thousands – of butterflies that lived near it for much of the year.”

“Holy…damn,” whispered Geralt. 

Malek and Lydial immediately looked at the witcher. 

“I think I know where that is,” he said quietly, looking at both of them. “I’m pretty sure that I’ve been to that mountain. With all the butterflies.”

“Where is it?” whispered Lydia, leaning forward.

“The other end of the Continent,” answered Geralt. Then, he clenched his jaws. “In Nilfgaard.”

“Then, I’d say we’ve had a long enough rest,” said the elf. “We best be on our way.”

The witcher reached up and smoothed down the whiskers on his cheeks. 

“Lydial, I…I don’t think you should come along.”

“And why is that?” 

The witcher let out a long sigh. 

“Because we’re all gonna die – that’s why,” he stated, staring right at her.

The she-elf smiled. “Are you a prophet now?”

“I’m serious, Lydial,” he replied, looking into her the eyes. “And no, I’m not a prophet, but I don’t have to be. It’s just common sense. I’ve had enough loved ones die already because of this damn Sword. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

“Geralt, we’re all going to die – at some point,” she replied, the smile now gone from her face. “And none of us know when. Could be today. Could be in another century. But, regardless of when it happens, for us who know Essea, it’s actually a good thing. And I’ve been on this journey with you almost the entire way. Let’s finish it together.”

The witcher shook his head. “You don’t understand, Lydial. It’s not just the Sword that’s dangerous. I’ve got…someone or some…thing after me.”

“Who?”

Geralt paused for moment. He looked at the two of them, debating on what to say – if he should even continue at all. In his mind, even though he knew it didn’t make sense, he thought that by even telling them his name, they’d be crossing a bridge from which they could never return. As if, just by knowing his name, that they would then become his next target. He looked down to the ground, lost in thought, until he eventually gave a small sigh.

“His name’s Gaunter O’Dimm,” he finally said, looking back up at the two of them, “and he’s like…nothing I’ve ever encountered.”

“You said that he could be a ‘thing.’ What did you mean by that?” asked Malek.

“Truthfully – I don’t know what he is, but I can tell you - he’s not human. He could be a demon, an evil djinn, or, hell, the devil, himself. But whatever he is, he’s more powerful than anyone or anything I’ve ever come across. And it’s not even close.”

“How powerful?” asked Lydial, now sounding a bit frightened.

“He can stop time, Lydial. _Literally_ stop time with just a clap of his hands.”

“But how…how is that possible?”

Geralt shook his head. “I have no idea. But I’ve seen it.”

“Well, what does this O’Dimm want with you?”

“I don’t rightly know, but earlier this year, he roped me into one of his schemes. I didn’t play along exactly like he wanted, and he ended up losing something valuable to him. So, my best guess is that he just wants revenge for what I did.”

“If he’s as powerful as you say, why doesn’t he just stop time, and then kill you?”  
  
“Again, I don’t know. He easily could if he wanted. I’ve seen him do it.” 

Geralt shook his head and then continued. 

“I don’t know for sure, but I…I think more than anything – more than even killing – he just enjoys causing people to suffer. But not the kind that you can learn from and grow from, where you end up stronger when you come out on the other side. No, he just wants to bring torment. The kind of suffering that crushes your soul, strips you of all peace and leaves you hopeless.” 

The witcher gave a slight nod. 

“I think that’s what he wants the most – to leave the world feeling hopeless. And then, when you’re at your rock bottom, he’ll swoop in and just make things worse.”

“How could he possibly make things worse than that?” Lydial asked in a soft voice.

“By playing on your worst fears…and your strongest desires. To the point that you’ll even forsake your own soul.”

“And you’re sure he’s after you?” asked Malek.

The witcher nodded. 

“Positive. He confronted me in the mountains right after Evie died.” He then turned to Lydial. “I also saw him in the papaver den in Azabar, the night Benny was killed. Though, I wasn’t sure at the time it was him. I thought I was just…hallucinating from the drugs in the air.” 

“So, what you’re saying is that when this O’Dimm guy shows up, people die,” said Lydial.

“Not just people, Lydial. People I care about,” said Geralt. “Now you see why I don’t want you coming along?”

“Son of a bitch,” interjected Malek. 

Both Lydial and Geralt suddenly looked at the big man to see fury on his face. He was looking right at the witcher.

“What?”

“You said you’ve seen him stop time before, right?” asked Malek.

Geralt nodded.

“Can he move people – their bodies – while time is stopped? Put them in different positions – something like that?”

“Definitely. Why?”

“It was him. There’s no other explanation. That son of a bitch moved my arm when I fired at Eilhart. He’s the one who killed Evangeline.”

oOo

_Nilfgaard_

Fringilla sat at her bedroom table staring into a bowl filled with clean, clear water. She had just severed the magical connection between the amulet around her neck and that of her former lover. The two amulets – hers and his – were almost identical copies. Months back, when Malek had asked her to create something that would interfere with Geralt’s ability to overtake his mind, she had gladly complied. Little did he know that she had also linked his amulet with hers as a way to both eavesdrop on him and to track his location. 

At the moment, Fringilla just sat there, too stunned to get up. She was at a complete loss for words at the revelations she had just heard. The historian was not only Malek’s daughter but she was also dead; the mythical Sword actually did exist and that it was close by in Nilfgaard; and there was some incredibly powerful being coming after Geralt. The petite sorceress was suddenly overwhelmed with fear for Malek. If this man named O’Dimm was targeting the witcher, then that meant whoever was with Geralt would be in danger, too. She had the sudden urge to go to Malek, to do whatever she could to protect him.

“But he’s made it clear, he doesn’t want me…or trust me,” she whispered to herself as she turned her head from the bowl and looked out her third-floor window.

In a hidden, narrow passageway right next to Fringilla’s bed chamber, sat a man all alone. All along the wall that connected her boudoir with his secret chamber were several tiny holes that allowed the man to both see and hear what was happening on the other side. 

Several minutes passed, and when Fringilla finally rose from the table and began to dress, the man quietly but quickly moved down the secret passageway. He had a lot to tell his new emperor.

oOo

  
_The Dragon Mountains_

Philippa looked around at the Redanian campsite and cursed. The snowy ground was covered in burned tents, body parts, and the bright crimson of human blood and the greenish bile from arachnid bowels. In addition to all the soldiers, her two remaining giant spiders had died in the skirmish at the campsite, as well. Though, frankly, that was not what was irritating her the most - for she knew she could always find more arachnomorphs to heed her call. Malek’s absence from the camp was what had her blood boiling. She had been so looking forward to his painful demise. 

As Philippa skittered around the campsite, she noticed more recent horse tracks leading down the mountain, and that got her attention. She headed in that direction, but she suddenly stopped when she felt a trace of magic in the air.

She raised her arms to her side and closed her eyes as she tried to pinpoint its location. Only the most knowledgeable and skilled of magic users knew that whenever the Power was used, it left a faint residue – like a scent of perfume lingering on a pillow long after a lover had departed. More so, if the magic user was powerful enough, their spells even had a distinct signature. As Philippa felt the pull of the Chaos, she quickly moved on all eight legs towards its origin, and a moment later she halted and simply began turning in a slow circle.

“Well, well,” she said to herself with an evil and satisfied smile. “I recognize this magic. Just what were you doing here, old friend?”

She took one last look around the mountain terrain and said, “Well, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find you.”

The sorceress from Montecalvo then began chanting and waving her hands, and a few seconds later, after transforming into her owl form, she flew down the mountain chasing the scent of familiar magic still lingering in the air.

  
oOo

“Evie once told me that you are…well, that you _were_ Nilfgaard’s greatest patriot. That there wasn’t anything you wouldn’t do for the Empire. But I also once had a conversation with Barcain. He mentioned that you’re not a true Nilfgaardian,” said Geralt in Malek’s direction. “Of course, at this point, I don’t believe a word that ever came out of that little prick’s mouth.”

Geralt then turned his head and spoke over his shoulder.

“No offense meant, Lydial. I know you still love him.”

Geralt and Lydial were co-riding the slightly larger of the two horses while Malek rode the other. The three of them were heading west towards the late afternoon sun, following the path of the Buina River, which ran down and out of the Kestral Mountains and formed the northern boundary of Redania. The river eventually emptied into the Gulf of Praxeda, and their plan was to follow it all the way there in order to find a ship sailing south to Nilfgaard. None of the three particularly wanted to travel all the way back down to the other end of the continent on horseback. 

“No offense taken, Geralt,” answered the Aen Seidhe. “I completely understand. I may still love him, but I don’t trust him, either.”

“And you didn’t offend me, either. The little shit killed both Hannamiel and my best friend,” said Malek. “When this is all over, I will definitely have to track him down. But,” the big man continued, “he was telling the truth in that case. I wasn’t born or raised in Nilfgaard. I’m originally from Ebbing.”

The witcher nodded. While on the Path, he’d many times traveled through the province that was just north of Nilfgaard itself. 

“Then – and I hope you don’t mind me asking – but just how is that an Ebbinite came to be Nilfgaard’s greatest patriot?”

Malek was silent for a moment, simply looking out in front of him. Geralt could tell he was deciding what to say. Eventually, he looked at the witcher and gave him a small nod before turning his eyes back to the terrain in front of his horse.

“Ebbing became a province of Nilfgaard before I was born, but we still had a lot of autonomy. We still had our own royal family that passed laws and decrees. They were subservient to the Emperor, of course, but they still had quite a bit of power within our country’s boundaries.

“When I was six, the king of Ebbing died in a coup. His brother – and the brother’s mage advisor – had tried to usurp the throne. They weren’t successful in actually gaining power, but they did manage to throw the entire country into chaos…because the king didn’t have a legitimate male heir. Only bastards. So, of course, a dispute arose over who should next wear the crown. Anyone and everyone with even a hint of royal blood came forth to stake their claim. And, then, of course, there were other noble families that claimed that they had true rights to the throne since their line had been usurped generations before. With everyone fighting for power, no one actually ruled, and it turned into anarchy.

“With our military leaders divided on who should rule – and even one of our generals trying to take the throne himself – our army turned against each other, which meant there was no rule of law in the land anymore. Chaos reigned. Crime became rampant. Bandits would just travel from town to town, doing whatever they pleased. I saw homes and crops burned. People…raped and murdered. It got to the point where – when we heard the hoof beats of horses approaching – we’d just flee into the woods.”

Malek then turned to look at the witcher. 

“You can’t imagine the amount of fear we all lived under every day. Fear, that consumed your every thought. Even your dreams – turning them into nightmares. Always wondering if today would be the day that they’d finally get you and your family. And one day, our luck did run out.”

At that point, Malek broke eye contact and looked straight ahead again.

“I watched my father tortured and murdered. I watched my mother and my sister tortured and raped.” Malek exhaled deeply before continuing. “I can still hear their screams when I close my eyes at night. The bastards even had their fun with me. And then they left, promising that they’d be back. And I knew they would. If not them, then some others just like them.

“Mom died the next day, and my sister and I ended up more or less hiding in the woods for the next two years. We became scavengers, learning how to live off the land. At one point, we traveled to the nearest city, but…we wound up in the slums, which may have been even more dangerous than being out in the forests. So, we left and went back to the woods that we knew so well. Where we felt at least semi-safe.

“And, then, one day, I heard a different sound coming from our village. It was the sound of horses but not like bandits’ horses charging through the streets like they normally would. It was slow and steady – measured. And I could hear a repeated clinking of metal. Letty and I hid at the edge of the woods and watched as rows and rows of black-armored men, both on horse and foot, entered our town. It was their armor, glistening in the sunlight, that was making the clinking noise. And I saw bandits being marched along with them, their hands tied behind their back. I watched as the bandits were hanged in the middle of town. I watched these Black Ones restore order to our town; re-establish law and peace, allowing us to live without fear again. And I wanted to be one of them. To wear the black armor and do what they had done.

“A little later, Letty and I moved to Vicovaro to live with my uncle…and my cousin, Holsted. But I never forgot the sight of those Nilfgaardians marching into our country and driving out the chaos. But I also never forgot the fear and shame I’d felt. I’ve never wanted any child to ever experience that, to experience what I went through. I swore then that I would do whatever was necessary to keep law and order in this world. And I always believed that Nilfgaard was the best option for that. Always believed that what was good for Nilfgaard was good for the world. So, when I got old enough, I left Vicovaro and headed south to the capital. With my size, strength, and…determination, it didn’t take long for me to find a place within the Black Ones’ ranks.”

Malek then, again, looked over at Geralt and Lydial.

“Of course, I also never forgot what started it all. That one mage advisor, whispering his schemes in the king’s brother’s ear. It’s why I’ve hated magic users virtually my entire life.”

Geralt made eye contact with Malek and gave a small nod of his head, but, after a moment, he smirked. 

“I guess some things have changed though. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be wearing Fringilla’s amulet.”

Malek nodded and a sad smile came to his face. “Yeah, Fringilla…”

Just as he was about to continue with his thought, Geralt interrupted him with a whispered, “Whoa,” and pulled up on his horse’s reins.

“Lydial, get off,” he quietly ordered.

She jumped off the back the horse, and he dismounted right after. 

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Not sure,” he said to both Lydial and Malek, who had also dismounted and was crowding close. “I thought I heard something up ahead.”

“Really?” asked Malek. “All I can hear is the sounds of the river and forest.”

“Trust him,” said Lydial. 

Geralt handed the reins to Lydial and said, “I’ll be right back.”

He immediately turned, drew his steel blade, and began walking toward the thick underbrush of the woods. Halfway there, his eyes slightly widened as he felt his medallion vibrate. He quickly sheathed his steel sword and, just as he was pulling his silver blade, a roar bellowed in the air, and a monster charged out of the underbrush.

The witcher dove to his right, and as he got to his feet, he signed a Quen right before a large, hard fist smashed into his chest. The Quen protection shattered, and he flew through the air, slamming hard against the trunk of a nearby tree. 

At the same time, the two horses let out cries of fear and then reared up on their hind legs. Lydial’s horse broke free from her grip and fled in the opposite direction. Malek’s horse did the same when he let loose of the reins in order to grab his weapon, but when he dropped his hand to his thigh, it grasped nothing but air. He looked down, suddenly remembering that he’d been stripped of all of his weapons. He cursed and then jerked his eyes back up to the monster, which was, at that moment, charging towards the witcher.

Geralt got to his feet, quickly cast another Quen, and saw his enemy approaching fast. He immediately recognized it – one of the strange gargolems from Novigrad. Unbeknownst to the witcher, the magical construct was only a shell of its former self. Its magical core was nearly drained, which meant it had lost its ability to breathe fire, to teleport into the air, or fight with the same strength or speed. Even so, it was still very lethal, and it also still remembered its orders from the Emperor – to destroy everyone in its path. And at that moment, the witcher was in its sight. 

Right as the gargolem approached Geralt, the witcher pirouetted to his left. As he came out of the turn, he slashed the twelve-foot-tall monster across its abdomen, but his razor-sharp blade only sliced into the creature’s resilient flesh barely an inch. When Geralt’s right, wooden leg landed on the soft soil, he lost his balance and slipped to the leaf-covered, forest floor. Now, flat on his back, he looked up to see the gargolem raise its massive leg, ready to smash him six-feet-deep into the ground. He quickly rolled to the side as the monster’s foot just missed crushing his head by mere inches. 

It was then that a massive bolt of lightning shot forth from out of the woods and struck the gargolem, slightly stunning and damaging the monster. Geralt took immediate advantage and scurried between the giant creature’s legs and came up standing behind the gargolem’s back. He slashed the creature across the back of its legs, but he could tell that his blade was doing little harm. He had enough experience with monsters to know that it’d take at least hundred slashes with his blade to finally bring it down.

He looked down to his bandolier, grasped a dimeritium bomb, and just as he looked up to toss it, the gargolem spun wildly, swinging its massive fist once more. The witcher hopped back, but with only one good leg with which to propel himself, he couldn’t evade the blow. Once again, his Quen shield shattered and he was knocked through the air. 

As fast as he could, Geralt scrambled to his feet, just in time to see Malek slinging rocks at the monster’s head and also to witness another bolt of lightning blast forth from some unknown source in the woods. The lightning charge hit the gargolem in the chest, again temporarily stunning the agent of destruction. The witcher then tossed his dimeritium bomb at the now-immobile magical construct. He limped a few steps closer, and not even bothering with his silver blade, he cast the most powerful Blyx Sign he could at the monster’s “heart.”

As he was doing this, a third lightning bolt from the woods struck the monster. The witcher continued to blast the monster with his own lightning-like charges until, eventually, he simply had no more energy left. He then immediately crouched low, ready to dodge, if necessary. But the monster made no movement. The witcher looked up, towards the gargolem’s face. Its eyes were black and lifeless, but Geralt knew that meant nothing. He tentatively took a couple of steps forward, and when his medallion did not vibrate, he quickly exhaled and nodded his head. Apparently, all the lightning bolt-like charges had destroyed the monster’s magical core. 

The witcher, still highly cautious, slowly approached the monster. He walked around it once, simply doing a visual inspection. Finally, he sheathed his silver sword, put both hands against the back of the gargolem and, with a grunt, pushed as hard as he could. With only one good leg, he couldn’t produce a lot of force, but eventually, the gargolem began to tip forward, and then momentum took over, and it crashed face down onto the forest floor, causing the ground to shake. The witcher took a few steps forward and unsheathed his silver sword. He lifted the sword high, and then, with all of his weight behind him, he drove the blade down and through the monster’s chest, skewering its magical center.

After pulling his sword free, Geralt winced, feeling pain throughout his body. Even with his Quen shield activated, the witcher had felt the monster’s blows. He was going to be quite bruised. He reached into the small pouch on his belt, removed a Swallow, and slowly drank it down. After putting the metal vial back in the pouch, he looked up and scanned the woods.

“Yen,” he eventually called out. “You can come out now. No sense in hiding anymore.”

A moment later, the beautiful, black-haired sorceress stepped out from behind a tree and began to walk slowly toward the witcher.

“And just how did you deduce that it was specifically me who was coming to your aid?”

“I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but I thought I saw your little, magical raven this morning. It needs to work on its stealth.”

The sorceress didn’t say anything. She simply gave a very small snort.

“I’m…we’re very grateful for your help, Yen,” Geralt continued, as Malek and Lydial walked up. “But what are you doing here? What about the lab at Dol Blathanna?”

“Don’t fret,” she said. “I called in a chit. I have someone watching over the fetuses.”

“Who’s that?” 

“Triss. After all that she’d done…I figured she owed me a favor. And she agreed.”

“Fair enough,” he said with a nod, “but you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here? Why are you following me?”

Yennefer looked at Geralt intently, and then her eyes shifted to Malek and Lydial. 

“I would like some privacy with Geralt…if that is not too much to ask,” said the sorceress, looking hard at Malek.

“Right,” the southerner said, equally matching her stare. He then turned to Geralt. “We’ll track down our horses. Come on, Lydial.”

After the two had walked away, Yennefer turned back to Geralt.

“Why am I following you? Because I…I was concerned for your safety, that’s why.”

“What?” the witcher asked, with a confused look on his face. “You’ve never been concerned when I was out on the Path. Why now?”

Yennefer shook her head. “You truly are clueless, Witcher. I’ve always been concerned. Every time.”

“Really?” he asked, sounding incredulous. “You never followed me before, though. So, why now?”

The sorceress stared at him and then let out a clear sigh of frustration. “Because before, you’d never come back to me…with a limb missing.”

The two stared into each other eyes for a long moment. Finally, the witcher nodded. 

“Alright. I can buy that,” he said.

oOo

Philippa flew just above the tree-tops of the forest. For the past two days, she’d been following the faint trail of Yennefer’s magical raven. The magical signature was unmistakable to the sorceress from Montecalvo – for it had, in fact, been she who had many years ago originally taught Yennefer the necessary spells for enchanting a piece of crystal into a flying, intelligent bird. Thus, she was having no trouble in recognizing its magic. 

Despite this, because the raven emitted such a small amount of magic, Philippa had, several times, lost its “scent” and had been forced to fly in ever-growing concentric circles until she finally came across it again. But, now, the “scent” was getting stronger – which meant that she was getting closer, much closer. She didn’t know exactly what she’d find when she came across the sorceress from Vengerberg, but she assumed Malek would be there at the end of her journey. And that made the little owl smile inwardly. She couldn’t wait to show Malek her new form.

oOo

A half hour after the battle with the gargolem, after having found their horses, the four of them were standing together near the river as the sun was starting to set. Geralt had given Yennefer the full details of the mission that they were undertaking, and she had been adamant about coming along. At first, the witcher had protested, saying that it was too dangerous, but he had eventually acquiesced – especially when it became clear that she would, as always, do what she wanted to do and that there was nothing that he could really do to stop her from following them, anyway.

“So, do we want to camp here tonight or ride on for a few more hours,” asked Malek, looking at Geralt and Lydial.

“I have a better idea,” said Yennefer, with a cool smile.

Malek looked at the sorceress but didn’t respond. 

“What’s that, Yen?” asked Geralt.

“Instead of slowly traipsing across the continent – as we’ve been doing for the last two days – and instead of wasting time on a vomit-inducing, month-long voyage on a ship…how about I simply teleport us to this…holy mountain?”

Geralt didn’t even bother to comment on her sarcasm. He simply looked at the others and then back to her.

“I don’t know, Yen. Can you even teleport that far? It’s all the way down in Nilfgaard.”

The sorceress rolled her eyes. 

“Geralt, you know very well that no one can teleport that far. But I could cast several between here and there. We’d get there eventually – in a matter of minutes instead of weeks.”

“Yeah, but you’d be absolutely drained when we got there, right? How long would it take before you could use your magic again?”

Yennefer tapped her chin with her finger.

“I suspect that I’d need to rest for a couple of hours – three, at the most.”

The witcher was silent, nodding his head for a moment. He then looked at everyone.

“How about this?” he started off. “Instead of teleporting to Mount Dealande, we go to the nearest town, Maecht.”

“And why would we want to do that?” Lydial asked.

“Several reasons. We have no idea what may be waiting for us at Dealande so…one, I don’t want Yen there without the ability to use magic. Two, I’d prefer to have horses if we need to retreat quickly, and since there’s no way to get them through portals, we could buy some more in Maecht. Plus, it’s almost sundown. Whatever we’re going to face, I’d rather do it in the light of day. I can see fine in the dark, but none of you can. Also, I think we could all use a good meal and full night’s sleep. Especially, you two,” he said, looking at Malek and Lydial. “You’ve been on-the-go for who knows how long.”

Malek nodded. “Agreed. Plus, I need a weapon or two. I can get those in Maecht.”

Geralt looked at Lydial. “So?”  
  
“Sounds good to me,” she said.

“Alright, then. Looks like we got a plan. Let’s get the tack off the horses, and then, Yen, you can do the honors.”

oOo

_Nilfgaard_

Fringilla released her magical spell, and the vision in the bowl disappeared. She had a resolute look on her face because, after what she’d just witnessed, she’d finally made up her mind. She would go to Malek, meet him in Maecht, and completely come clean with him. Somehow, someway, she’d convince him to trust her again. Or, at least, she’d convince him to allow her to try to earn his trust again. If he refused to forgive her and to give her another chance, then she’d even bring up the fact that Geralt had forgiven him. She knew there was no way that he could accept Geralt’s forgiveness and not extend the same towards her.

She was suddenly pulled from her thoughts by a knock on the main door to her living quarters. She quickly made her way there and opened it to see one of her least favorite people in the world at the moment. 

“Hello, Gilla,” said Emperor Donato with a smile. “I’ve come to apologize. May I come in?”

The sorceress looked up at her cousin with a stoic face. She didn’t say anything, but she eventually took several steps backs to let him across the threshold. He entered the room and came up close to her.

“Look, Gilla, I was wrong, okay? I shouldn’t have asked you to marry someone you didn’t want.”

“You didn’t ask, Donato. You ordered me to.”

“You’re right. You’re right,” he said quickly. “Again, I apologize. I guess the stress of the situation got the better of me. Right now, I’m just not sure how to handle the nobles in Toussaint.” He then smiled again. “Remember, I am new at the job, right?”

Fringilla gave a short nod of her head. 

“Okay, all is forgiven.”

“Excellent,” he said coming close and extending his arms for a hug. “I knew my little Gilla couldn’t stay mad at me.”

Fringilla let her cousin pull her into an embrace, and a moment later, she heard him say, “Now,” in a loud voice.

Suddenly, two guards rushed into the room, each grabbing one of the sorceress’s arms. Donato quickly stepped away from her, and before she even knew what was happening, she felt her wrists being bound together. She looked down to see shackles in the unmistakable color of dimeritium green. 

She jerked her head up and glared at Donato. She raised her hands and said a spell, but when she cast her hands forward, nothing happened. 

“Sorry, Gilla, but I no longer trust that you have the best interest of the Empire in mind.”

Fringilla didn’t say anything, but he could clearly see the fury in her eyes.

“You should know that I have spies everywhere – even here in the palace. Did you really think it wise to withhold knowledge of Malek’s whereabouts…or of the existence of this powerful elven sword from me?”

Fringilla didn’t bother to answer so he just shook his head.

“Jaakko, you may enter,” he said over his shoulder.

A young man in obvious sorcerer attire entered Fringilla’s living quarters and then went straight to her bedchamber. A moment later, he returned with the bowl of water in his hands. Donato looked at it and then into the young mage’s eyes.

“And you’re sure you know how to use it?”

The look of uncertainty was evident on Jaakko’s face. 

“It’s…it’s just a bowl of water, Your Grace,” he stammered out. “I…I thought that it was, perhaps, filled with a magical potion. I am not, uh, well-versed in hydromancy, Your Grace.”

Donato rolled his eyes.

“Tell me again why you’re my mage-advisor. Did you actually graduate from Ban Ard?”

Before the sorcerer could answer, the emperor raised his hand and said, “Never mind.”

He then looked back at Fringilla.

“It matters not. We know where they’re headed – Vlinder Hill. It’s the only place in Nilfgaard that matches the description.” The Emperor smiled. “Who knew? They were galivanting all over the Continent, and this weapon was little more than a day’s ride away the entire time.” The smile then fell from his face. “Because we’re kin, I’ll spare you the indignity of the dungeons. You’ll be allowed to stay here in your living quarters – guarded.”

He then began his exit from the room. He turned at the door and looked back at Fringilla.

“Once we have the elven artifact, and once we capture Malek…and execute him, then I’ll deal with you.”

He then glanced at his two guards. 

“Guard her well. And do not let her escape.” 

oOo

Philippa – with wings spread wide – floated down through the night sky and then landed softly on the ground near the Buina River. A moment later, she transformed back into her giant, arachnid form. She didn’t even need to close her eyes and make an attempt to search for the magic in the air. The area was saturated with it. It was obvious that two portals had been opened nearby just a few hours before.

Under the light of the full moon, a large object on the ground several yards away caught her eyes and she quickly skittered over to it. 

“Oh, my poor baby, look at you,” she said to the gargolem, lying still and face down on the forest floor. “What has happened to you? You have been so neglected. Well, Mother’s here now. Let’s give you some tender love and care.”

Then, a wicked smile came to her face. 

“And, then, you and I will take a trip. See if we can find some fun.”


	41. Chapter 41

Book 3: The Wolf Dies  
Chapter 9

_Mount Dealande; 102 Years Post-Conjunction_

“I regret leaving Narriel alive,” said Maccarreg. “I should’ve killed him, too.”

His brother, walking alongside of him, shook his head.

“You said that he didn’t pull his sword. So, you did the right thing.” 

“But what if he talks?”

Taibhsear shrugged as he continued walking under the midnight sky.

“Well, if he talks…and if he says that the Sword is up in the Dragon Mountains near Chiava…and if those rumors make it all the way down here…and if someone asks you about it, then just lie.”

“Really? You know as well as I that lying is a violation of Essea’s Code,” he said with a smile. After he paused, he asked, “And just what would I say?”

“The best lies are those that are mostly truth. So, just tell anyone who asks that the Sword was lost up in the Dragon Mountains. Which is almost completely true. That’s where it did become lost to almost the entire world. Only you and I will ever know its true resting place. Of course, if you don’t want to lie, then just tell them that it’s none of their damn business.”

“Yeah, I think I like that better,” said Maccarreg, who was holding a long, thin object wrapped in several blankets under one arm and a small, stone vase whose lid was sealed with wax under the other. 

The two brothers walked up the steps of a portico that was lined with elaborate, thirty-foot tall columns. They eventually stopped at two enormous, wooden front doors which Taibhsear proceeded to unlock. It took both elves to push open one of the doors as its hinges were nearly rusted shut. It had been decades since the doors had last been opened. After entering the completely dark building, they closed and locked the doors behind them and then slowly looked around at what had once been the Aen Seidhe nation’s most hallowed ground. There were no torches in any of the sconces lining the walls, and there were no windows through which the rays of the full moon could pass. Only the flames from the torch in Taibhsear’s hand allowed the brothers to see. The eyes of both elves landed on a tall, stone structure in the middle of the great hall. To most anyone, it would have appeared to be nothing more than a small, square room, with stone walls fifteen-feet high and ten feet wide. But the two brothers knew better.

Maccarreg breathed in deeply and then exhaled slowly. 

“I don’t feel right being here.”

“I know. Makes the hair on my neck stand on end,” Taibhsear said with a nod. “Come on.”

The two walked across the expansive first floor and towards the back of the temple. They came to another wooden door – this one normal sized – and Taibhsear unlocked this one as well. Maccarreg stepped into the total darkness and then his brother followed. After the elder sibling re-locked the door, they made their way down a rickety, circular, wooden staircase. It felt to Maccarreg as if the temperature dropped one or two degrees with each step that he took downward. 

Less than a minute later, the two Aen Seidhe were standing in a fairly large, empty cavern. Though it was empty, there were sconces that had been chiseled into several of the stone walls, and after Taibhsear placed his torch within one, he turned and looked at his brother. They both gave each other a small nod, and then Maccarreg stepped toward a thigh-high, rectangular-shaped, rock slab in the middle of the cavern and placed the blanket-covered object in the middle of it. He then set the vase down right in front of the long, thin object. 

He looked up at his brother and smiled. The first that had crossed his face that entire evening. 

“Being down here brings back good memories.”

Taibhsear smiled back. “Yeah.” He then inhaled deeply. “It’s been a hundred years, but I swear that I can still smell the scent of father’s parchment.”

Maccarreg nodded and then closed his eyes. “I can still picture him – right here – on his knees in prayer, hour after hour.”

The younger sibling then opened his eyes, looked at his brother, and then glanced over to the thirty-foot-tall staircase that they had just descended. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. There was a trace of doubt in his voice.

“I am,” said Taibhsear.

“Okay,” answered Maccarreg and then he took out his sword, walked over to the spiral staircase, and swung his blade into the wood. After only a few swings of his sword, the partially-rotten wooden structure came crashing down to the cavern floor. 

Maccarreg then looked upward at the ceiling of the cave and shook his head. 

“I really don’t like it being so close to that thing up there.”

“Neither do I. That’s why when we’re done here, I’m going to have the door up there walled off.” 

“Not good enough if you ask me. I still wish I could’ve dropped it to the bottom of the ocean.”

“I agree. That seems the safer decision, but…we’ve really got no choice, right? Essea’s angel told you to place it here. We have to obey,” said his brother.  
  
“I know. Though…are you sure we’re not making this thing too difficult to find?” Maccarreg asked, nodding his head towards the object on the slab.

“That’s kind of the point. Are you saying you want it to be found?”

Maccarreg shook his head. “Of course not, but you know Father’s prophecy as well as I do. Yes, it’s totally vague, so we don’t know who and we don’t know when, but we do know that someone, somehow is going to end up using this damned thing at some point. So, we can’t make it impossible to find.”

Taibhsear shook his head. “We have to trust that Essea is in control of this. If Father’s prophecy truly came from God, and if the angel that spoke to you truly came from him, too, then we have to trust that he’ll make it all work somehow. If someone’s truly meant to use this, then Essea will somehow get it into their hands.”

Maccarreg sighed again. “I know you’re right, brother, but…I’m just having a hard time trusting right now. For over three years, I saw this Sword repeatedly display its power and destruction. So…I’m having a real difficult time believing that it could ever be used for good…even in Essea’s hands.”

Taibhsear nodded. “I agree, and that’s why I wrote what I did,” he said, looking at the sealed vase. “I just hope that whoever one day finds this will read what we wrote first.” 

Maccarreg nodded and then exhaled deeply. “Okay. It’s in Essea’s hands.” He then smiled. “Now, do you remember how to get out of here?”

“Well, it’s been a century. So, forgive me if I take a couple of wrong turns.”

oOo

_Maecht; Fall 1273_

The Riverside Inn was the most popular eatery in Maecht, with both its delectable food and its beautiful vista of the Imlebar River running right below its elevated patio. However, as it was early in the week, the tavern was mostly empty and, therefore, very quiet. At a table in the back room sat a foursome, hunched over empty plates and tankards and whispering amongst themselves. A single candle sat in the middle of the table, reflecting off a pane of glass in a nearby window and doing its best to fight back the shadows lurking along the tavern’s walls. 

“You must be joking,” said Yennefer, the incredulous tone in her voice obvious to everyone else at the table. “ _That’s_ the prophecy that started this whole mess?”

Geralt just shrugged and nodded.

“And the chosen one is a _virgin?_ ’’ she continued sarcastically, shaking her head. “Why is it that all these religious nuts are so hung up on sex, in one way or another?” Then she looked at Lydial and smirked. “Virginity is so overrated, if you want my opinion.”

“Well, I don’t, and we are not ‘hung up’ on sex,” whispered Lydial with some heat in her voice. “We are the only ones who have a proper and respectful view of it. It is a gift-” 

She stopped her counterargument when she felt Geralt’s hand gently squeeze her leg under the table. She looked at him to see a warm smile on his face.

“My hope is that we can argue to our hearts’ content about sex and religion when this is all over. But, for now, let’s all try to stay on the same side – what do you say?” he asked, looking at Lydial and then Yennefer. 

Lydial gave a short nod of her head, and the sorceress raised her eyebrows, as if to say, “What did I do?”

“I’ve pondered on this long and hard,” Geralt continued, “and I don’t think the ‘virgin’ in this prophecy is dealing with sex at all.”

“Then, what’s it talking about?” asked Malek.

“Well, when I think of the word, obviously, the first thing that comes to mind is a person who hasn’t had sex, but…I also think about a pristine, snow-covered mountain. A blanket of snow unblemished…untouched, not a footprint to be seen.”

“White,” Yennefer said unexpectedly.

“What?”

“Maybe it’s got something to do with the color white. Virgin is synonymous with ‘white.’ The ‘virgin’ snow-covered field is white. A virgin wears white at her wedding.”

Malek smirked and looked at Geralt. “Then, maybe the prophecy is about you…White Wolf.”

The witcher didn’t smile back. “Unlikely. You fit the bill better than I do.”

“How’s that?” he answered with a laugh.

Geralt shrugged. “The prophecy also talks about a ‘right hand,’ and you were once Emhyr’s ‘right hand’ man. And what’s Emhyr called? The white flame dancing on the graves of his foes.” He then nodded and a small smirk came to his face. “The pieces are starting to fall into place.” 

“That does sound logical,” said Lydial with a grin.

Malek smiled back. “This is getting us nowhere.”

“Agreed. Evie…” the witcher then paused and gave a little sigh. “Evie, Lydial, and I have already discussed this prophecy to the point that I’m sick of it. I’m resigned to the fact that we’ll probably never know what it truly means – if it’s even a true prophecy at all.”

Suddenly, Lydial yawned, which caused the others to start yawning, as well. 

“Guess that’s our cue,” said Geralt, standing up. “Let’s get a good night’s rest. We’ve got a full day’s ride ahead of us tomorrow.”

As the other three stood up from the table, they all heard a deep rumbling sound coming from outside. A moment later, they felt vibrations coming up through the wooden floor of the tavern.

“That can’t be thunder,” said Yennefer, slightly alarmed.

The witcher looked at the sorceress and then immediately pulled his silver sword. 

Malek also drew his weapon and said, “I’ve heard and felt that before – in Novigrad and Tretogor. Eilhart’s monsters.”

Suddenly, the front wall of the tavern exploded, and the witcher immediately cast a large Quen dome that shielded all four of them. A moment later, shards of timber and glass bounced off of the protective barrier, and when they looked up, they saw a fully-functional gargolem barge into the middle of the tavern, let out a roar, and breath fire upwards at the ceiling. 

The witcher looked over his shoulder towards the back window, and as he turned back to face the monster, he yelled out to the others, “Move away from me!”

He then quickly tossed a Dancing Star bomb at Eilhart’s monstrosity while his three friends scattered. The explosive only slightly singed the monster’s tough hide, but it clearly got its attention. The gargolem immediately let out another roar and charged at the witcher. Geralt quickly cast a standard Quen and then stood still, staring down the rampaging creature. A fraction of a second before it reached him, he dove hard to his right, and the gargolem crashed through the back wall of the inn, across the back patio, and through the railing - falling a good twenty feet into the deep Imlebar River below. 

The four then crowded around the hole in the tavern’s back wall, looking down into the dark river, huge waves rippling outward from where the monster had just sunk toward the river’s bottom.

“Think it can swim?” asked Malek.

“Hope not,” answered Geralt. 

“Oh, I am so pleased,” came a voice from behind them. 

They all turned to see Philippa Eilhart standing where the tavern’s front door had been only moments before.

“Holy hell,” whispered Geralt, seeing the giant spider-witch.

“Philippa?” exclaimed Yennefer.

Philippa laughed. “Oh, the looks on your faces are priceless. And here I was, thinking that I’d only get to kill Malek. But, Witcher, you’re here, too. I’m going to have twice the fun.”

Never taking his eyes off of the sorceress, Geralt said quietly in Malek’s direction, “I thought you said you killed her.”

“I thought I did.”

“Not hardly,” Philippa snarled, casting a spell at Malek, and everyone moved at once. 

Malek dove to the floor as a pulse of black energy passed over him, shattering the wall behind him. He scrambled through the hole in the back wall towards the patio, and as Philippa cast again, a giant, purple-looking shield quickly materialized, blocking the spider-witch’s next barrage.

Philippa dropped her spell and slowly turned her head to gaze at Yennefer, who was still holding her magical shield in place as the ceiling above them became more and more engulfed in flames.

“Yenna, you and I haven’t always seen eye to eye - what two sorceresses do? But it doesn’t have to come to this, you know.” 

Yennefer glanced at Geralt, who was quickly helping Lydial to her feet and out towards the back of the tavern. She then locked eyes again with Philippa, and the witch from Montecalvo shook her head, a look of disgust on her face. 

“I have never understood you two. Never understood his hold on you.”

Yennefer gave a small, sad smile.

“Me neither, Phil,” she said with a shrug. “But…understand it or not, I can’t let you harm him.”

“Then, you’ve made your choice,” Philippa hissed. “So be it.” 

She immediately began to motion with both hands and moments later waves of deadly Chaos pulsated forth toward the raven-haired sorceress.

oOo

Geralt had just helped Lydial onto the back porch of the burning tavern and was turning to head back inside to assist Yennefer, when he heard a whistling noise in the air above the river. An instant later, a dripping-wet gargolem came crashing down onto the warehouse district docks on the far bank. The magical construct stared at the three of them on the back patio, let out a menacing roar, and then suddenly vanished with a whooshing sound. The witcher quickly jerked his head upward and then back down again at Lydial and Malek.

“Run!” he yelled as he grabbed Lydial by the shirt sleeve and dragged her toward the edge of the elevated porch. 

Just as the gargolem smashed down through the roof of the tavern, Geralt, Lydial and Malek all dove off the patio and plunged into the river below. The dark, swift currents of the Imlebar immediately began pushing them down stream and away from danger. Their heads eventually bobbed above the surface, and despite the fact that the Imlebar was over a hundred feet wide, they began frantically swimming for the opposite bank. They were halfway across when the gargolem charged forth from the burning tavern, and a moment later, the entire building collapsed in on itself. The now towering inferno reflected off the water’s surface, making the blaze appear twice as immense. 

Eilhart’s monster, also engulfed in flames, roared again when it saw its prey in the middle of the river. Immediately, the gargolem vanished high into the air before falling straight down towards its quarry. The witcher sensed an enormous splash right behind him, and he was propelled forward by a forceful wave as the monster just missed driving his body straight to the bottom of the riverbed. 

About a minute later, the three drug themselves out of the river, onto a stone platform that was level with the water, and then they climbed the ten, stone steps up to ground-level. 

“Think…it’ll stay down there…this time?” asked Lydial, bent over and completely out of breath.

“The water’s gotta be affecting its magical core, but we can’t sit here and find out,” said the witcher, getting to his feet. “Give me your bandolier.”

“Why?” 

“Just hand it over.”

After she did so, Geralt pulled two Dancing Star bombs from his own bandolier, handing one each to Lydial and Malek. 

“Go! Hide in the shadows,” he said, nodding his chin towards the warehouse buildings on the other side of the walkway. “And when I say ‘now’, you toss those at it.”

“What are you gonna do?” asked Lydial, her voice full of both fear and concern.

“Just go!”

The witcher signed a Quen and then turned and faced the river, not even bothering to watch Lydial and Malek running for cover. Geralt’s eyes moved upriver to the blazing tavern, and he frowned.

“Damn it, Yen,” he whispered as he took a Dimeritium bomb into his hand. 

But he quickly shook his head and looked up, surveying the night sky. A moment later, he heard what sounded like a meteor barreling straight at him, and he immediately dove hard to his right. As he came out of his roll, the one-ton gargolem slammed into the ground, and the witcher threw the dimeritium bomb, hitting the monster right in the chest. The special alchemical dust interfered with the construct’s magical core, and once Geralt was sure that it was – at least momentarily – incapacitated, he hopped towards it. Unfortunately, being so close to the just-detonated explosive made his Quen protection malfunction, but he didn’t have time to think about that. He quickly slung Lydial’s bandolier around the top part of the monster’s thigh and then buckled it tightly in place, and he then did the same with his own bandolier on the other thigh. He had just finished when he sensed the gargolem coming back to life. 

“Now!” he yelled just has he turned toward the river. 

He’d only taken one step when pain suddenly shot through his ribs as he felt a massive punch from the gargolem land squarely on his side, knocking the witcher through the air and into the Imlebar River ten feet below. As he sank underneath the water, he opened his eyes, and suddenly his vision was filled with a tremendous flash of light as a ball of flames passed above him. 

He kicked upward, and a second later, the witcher’s head broke through the water’s surface and he deeply breathed in the cool, night air. Holding his left arm to his side to protect his broken ribs, he slowly swam with one arm and his one good leg back to the flood wall. He staggered to his feet on the river platform, climbed back up to ground-level, and limped towards the still “living” monster. Its bottom half was obliterated and it was missing one hand, but it was still crawling towards Malek, roaring and breathing out fire in his direction. 

As Geralt walked up behind the gargolem, he made a quick Igni Sign with his fingers, and, to his relief, a small flame did appear. Fortunately, the river water had washed off the dimeritium dust, allowing him to once again cast his Signs. He stepped up close to the monster and blasted him repeatedly with Blyx until it finally stopped moving and fell dead to the ground. It was then that the witcher turned around and looked at the town on the other side of the bank. The flames from the tavern had spread to the neighboring buildings, and the witcher could hear screams and shouts coming from somewhere in the distance. But what he couldn’t see or hear were any magical spells being cast, and he didn’t like the sound of that at all. He immediately began running for the nearest bridge so that he could cross over to the other side. He had to help Yennefer.

oOo

Yennefer elevated the turned over and broken pieces of furniture in front of her and then dove for cover. Philippa’s spell impacted the wooden tables and chairs and blasted them into pieces, sending shards and splinters in all directions. Yennefer got to her feet, out of Philippa’s line of sight. Hiding in the stairwell that led up to the second-floor bedrooms, the raven-haired sorceress had a momentary respite from the battle. It was then that she realized that the tavern was about to burn down around her. She cast a quick teleportation spell, and a moment later, she re-materialized out in the street.

Yennefer coughed out some smoke and then stared wide-eyed at the inferno in front of her. Even standing thirty feet away, the heat was alarmingly intense, and sweat ran down from her hairline and through the streaks of soot that were smeared across her cheeks and chin. Her focus on the front entrance of the tavern was interrupted by shouts coming near her as many of the town’s citizens began rushing out into the street to gawp at the fire. Suddenly, she heard a noise high in the air, and a moment later, she watched Eilhart’s gargolem smash right through tavern roof, causing all the town-folk in the street to scatter. 

Then, out of the fiery carnage skittered the spider-witch, tendrils of smoke rising up from her body where the flames had singed her thick, course arachnid hairs. Despite that, she had a wide smile on her face as she leapt off the tavern porch and into the middle of the street. Without a word, she cast a spell at Yennefer, and their battle resumed. 

The sorceress from Vengerberg was a proud woman, but she could freely admit that Philippa had always been able to control more raw Power than her. On top of that, Yennefer’s forte had never been offensive, magical spells. Thus, she knew that in a battle with Eilhart, she’d be at a disadvantage, but she’d always thought that she should be able to hold her own. However, now, the speed and power with which Philippa cast her spells were greater than Yennefer had ever seen. The raven-haired sorceress was literally back on her heels, completely on the defensive. She was barely getting a shield up in time to block Philippa’s attacks, and even more concerning was the fact that she could tell that she was quickly draining of stamina while Philippa seemed to be not tiring at all. Her head was spinning, and she was starting to feel faint.   
  
Though her vision was starting to tunnel, Yennefer saw a bright orange wave of energy coming right at her, and she lifted her arms, quickly casting a spell of her own. The dirt at her feet immediately swirled up in front of her and then transformed into a rock-hard shield. Her eyes went wide with shock, though, as she saw her floating shield inexplicably move to the side, and an instant later, she felt pain sear through her chest and she was knocked from her feet as Philippa’s spell impacted squarely. The next thing she knew, she was on her back, staring up at the stars high above her in the sky. And then her vision was filled with a giant figure as the spider-witch walked over the downed sorceress. 

“What to do…what to do,” said Philippa as she stared down into Yennefer’s eyes. She then sighed. “You know, despite my appearance, I’m not a monster, and it would be such a shameful waste to end a powerful and elegant wielder of magic as yourself. I’m not even angry with you, Yenna. This was actually quite fun.”

Then, her faced turned deadly. 

“Your boyfriend and Malek, on the other hand…well, I see that they serve no greater purpose…so they shan’t be missed. Ta-ta.”

Philippa chanted a spell, and after a couple of seconds, she transformed from a giant spider into her small owl. Yennefer’s eyes followed the owl flying off into the dark night, and then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a magical crystal. With shaking hands, she brought it to her lips, pushed out all the remaining energy that she had, and whispered something unintelligible into her cupped hands. The small crystal began to glow a bright blue, changed into a black raven, and then soared into the air. Yennefer’s hands fell limply to her side, and as the blood poured out of her, the sorceress from Vengerberg slowly closed her eyes and thought longingly of an ashen-haired girl with emerald-green eyes who had once called her “Momma.”

oOo

Philippa, high above the Imlebar River, was looking down at a clearly injured witcher. He was running along the docks but with a visible limp and while protecting his ribs. She lowered the angle of her wings and slightly adjusted her descent, moving silently towards her prey. There would be no warnings, no gloating this time. She had learned her lesson when dealing with him. She would cast a spell right into the back of his cursed head and be done with him. Then, she could turn her full attention to Malek. Now, with him, she’d have some fun.

She floated downward, as quiet as a feather, a few more feet and positioned herself right behind him. Because of her beak, she couldn’t smile, but Philippa was very much smiling on the inside. The anticipation was nearly overwhelming. Just as she was about to let loose with a lightning spell, she heard a horrendous croaking sound coming from behind, followed by an immediate and painful collision.

oOo

Geralt heard the cry of a raven just a moment before a lightning bolt shot over his shoulder, causing the ground to explode in front of him. He instantly dove to his right, tucked into a roll, and came to his feet looking into the night sky. He watched in confusion as two birds were in a mid-air battle. Suddenly, a blast of lightning shot forth from the owl, hitting the other bird squarely in the chest, and it shattered into a thousand, glass-like pieces. If there had been any question before, then seeing the owl perform magic confirmed for the witcher just who the bird was, and it was now swooping down toward him. 

He signed a Quen and reached back for his crossbow, and just as Philippa cast a spell, he fired his bolt. Her magical wave of Chaos cracked his protective shield and blasted him off his feet. Though his projectile had just barely missed its target, it did cause Eilhart to dip and dodge and then nosedive down. 

As Geralt got to his feet, he saw the owl, now resting of the ground, morph into her giant spider form and start scurrying in his direction. The witcher quickly signed another Quen, reloaded his crossbow, and as he lifted his weapon to aim, his protective shield shattered again, and, again, he was knocked off his feet, landing hard on his back. However, unlike the first time, he felt pain shooting through his right shoulder. He reached up and placed his hand over his shoulder, but he didn’t even bother looking at. He could feel the blood on his palm. Geralt shook his head slightly. He’d never known Philippa’s spells to be this strong. The last mage that he’d come across who was this powerful was Vilgefortz. If she could shatter his Quen, then his only defense would be to dodge, and with only one good leg, he didn’t like his odds of staying alive for long. 

The witcher slowly began to rise but was suddenly slammed back down - a giant, hairy, arachnid leg pinning him to the ground. Standing proudly above him was Eilhart, wearing a maniacal grin. 

“Well, well…this spider has caught a squirming, little bug,” she taunted.

She had told herself that she wouldn’t gloat, but the sorceress just couldn’t help herself. For just as dogs return to their vomit, so do proud fools always repeat their folly. A haughty spirit would always lead to a fall - which was fortunate for the witcher, for Philippa simply couldn’t resist reveling in a victory.

Before she could even say another word – much less end his life – the witcher shot his left arm forward and blasted forth a continuous stream of Igni right into her face. The spider-witch caught fire and leapt back off of the monster-slayer. She quickly skittered backward, hissing and howling, while he maintained his Sign. She continued to retreat until she was finally out of range of the witcher’s Igni, and then she quickly patted out the fire around her face and head. The flames had done significant damage, but at the moment, the sorceress was more angry than hurt. 

Philippa raised her head to glare at the witcher, but he was no longer where he’d been. She got just a glimpse of him as he fell from the top of the flood wall and into the river below. 

“You’ll not escape me that easily,” she snarled, before transforming into her owl.

After soaring into the air, she saw the witcher a surprisingly long distance away. He was climbing back out of the river onto a small, stone platform that led into the city’s sewers. Thirty seconds after he’d disappeared from sight, she landed on the same platform and changed back into a spider. 

“You should’ve just let yourself drown, Witcher!” she yelled into the darkness of the sewers. “Know this – your death won’t be quick!”

The sorceress’ words echoed down the stone tunnels of the sewer and past the witcher as he limped along as fast as he could. He actually had no idea where he was going or what his plan was. He just knew that in his current condition – one leg, broken ribs, and bleeding out - there was no way that he could defeat Eilhart. As he splashed through the knee-high water and sewage, his eyes scanned for any kind of cranny or hidey-hole where he could avoid detection. At the same time, he reached into his pouch, pulled out a Swallow and poured it down his throat. 

“If nothing else, I’ll be feeling better when she kills me,” he thought to himself, a twisted smile coming to his face. 

The witcher turned a corner, and thirty feet later, he came to a closed and locked gate. He pulled on the gate’s door with all of his strength, but even at his best, he’d have been hard-pressed to bend steel. That’s when he heard a noise behind him and turned to see Philippa taking up almost the entire tunnel. She didn’t say a word.

Suddenly, the sewers were illuminated in a bluish glow as she cast a magical shield that materialized five feet in front of her. As she began to slowly walk towards the witcher through the sewer water, the shield moved forward, as well. When she was fifteen feet away, the witcher let loose with a powerful Igni stream. After holding it for five seconds, he released the Sign but saw that her shield was as strong and as bright as ever. 

Philippa sneered. 

“Never again, Witcher.”

Geralt honestly didn’t know how he was going to best Philippa, but he instinctively pulled his silver sword, anyway. If he was going to die, then he figured that he should do so like a witcher – with a sword in his hand – because, up until the last month, being a witcher was all he’d ever known. 

It was then that his eyes drifted down, and for the first time since entering the sewers, it truly dawned on him where they were. He slowly brought his eyes back up and saw the smile on Philippa’s now scarred face. 

“Philippa,” said the witcher said, holding his sword in his right hand, “It’s not too late. I’ll let you surrender.”

The sorceress actually laughed. 

“I’ll give you this – at least you’re consistent,” she said. “A sarcastic ass to the end.”

“So, that’s a ‘no?’”

“Witcher, I’m going to tear you apart, limb from limb, and then feed you to my spider friends.”

He nodded, twisted his sword in the air, caught it in a back-handed grip, and raised the hilt up to eye-level. 

Philippa snorted.

“Do you actually think you’re going to use that to kill me?” she asked, still behind her shield.

Geralt shook his head. “No. It’s for balance.”

He immediately jabbed the tip of the blade into the mortar between two stones in the wall to his right and then raised his left knee, bringing his leg completely out of the water. The sorceress had a thoroughly bemused look on her face. 

“Witcher-” she started.

But she was cut off when the monster-slayer cast the strongest Blyx he could right at the water just below her shield. The lightning-like bolts of energy passed through the sewer water and right into her eight, hairy legs. To Philippa, it felt as if every muscle in her body was seizing, contracting so hard that the tendons were about to be ripped from her bones. She didn’t know how long the pain coursed through her body, but when it finally relented, her legs collapsed and she fell belly-first onto the sewer floor. She was seeing “stars” in all six of her eyes, and she reached up her hands to rub her two, large human ones. When she pulled her hands away, her vision started to come back into focus, and she immediately recognized the tip of the witcher’s blade coming with great speed right at her face. It was the last thing the sorceress from Montecalvo would ever see before she died.

oOo

The witcher was breathing heavy and staring at the row of four, black spider eyes on Eilhart’s forehead. After a moment, he slowly pulled his silver sword from the spider-witch’s skull and then quickly swung his blade true, slicing through the monster’s neck and severing her head from her body. It instantly toppled into the sewage water below and floated face-up. 

As Geralt looked down into Philippa’s hideous and bloody face, he remembered a brave, little boy back at Kaer Morhen. A little boy that the witch had so needlessly struck down. He exhaled deeply and slowly nodded his head, remembering the promise that he’d made to himself all those months ago.

“May you rest in peace, Isaac,” he whispered.

He continued to stare at the witch’s sinking head until it was completely submerged down into the sewage. It was then that his eyes drifted slightly to the right – to his right leg. To the leg that ended in a stump and a wooden prosthesis. Suddenly, a look of amazement crossed his face, and he furrowed his brows and slowly shook his head. 

“Unbelievable,” he whispered, still staring down at his amputated appendage. “Who would’ve ever guessed…losing you ended up saving my life.”

He stood there in silence for a moment longer, still shaking his head in disbelief, and then, suddenly remembering Yennefer, he quickly sheathed his sword and moved with haste past Eilhart’s corpse and towards the sewer’s exit.

oOo

A half hour later, Geralt stood on main street, but he had his back to the still-blazing Riverside Inn. Lydial and Malek stood a respectful distance away, giving him some privacy. The street in front of the tavern was filled with hundreds of the town’s citizens bringing up buckets of water from the river. The inn, itself, was a lost cause, but they were doing their best to contain the fire so that it wouldn’t spread to the neighboring buildings. At some point, a kind soul had dragged Yennefer’s body to the opposite side of the street so that it wouldn’t get trampled. 

Despite the chaos going on all around him, the witcher was alone in his thoughts, and he stared down at the sorceress for the longest time. She looked so small lying there in the dancing shadows. He, of course, was very aware of Yennefer’s size, but her personality had always given her a larger-than-life presence. More times than not, she’d always displayed a fierce and haughty strength, which belied her true physical stature. It was only in those rare times when she’d been vulnerable with him that he’d viewed her as she truly was. But he’d never seen her look as vulnerable and as small as she did in death. 

When he came out of his thoughts, his eyes were focused on her face, and he noticed something that he hadn’t picked up on first glance. He bent down on his left knee next to her head, and what he saw made him clench his jaws tightly. Up close, he could see the tracks of dried tears that had streaked through the soot and dirt on her face. In his nearly three decades of knowing Yennefer, he couldn’t ever remember seeing her cry. The witcher’s chin fell to his chest as he sighed deeply. He may not have been “in love” with the sorceress any more, but he still loved her. And it hurt his heart to know that she’d died alone, crying with her last breaths. He closed his eyes, and just shook his head. 

“How many more, Essea?” he whispered. “How many more?”


	42. Chapter 42

Book 3: The Wolf Dies  
Chapter 10

_Nilfgaard_

Fringilla lay in her bed, but her eyes were wide open. She hadn’t slept all night, too consumed with guilt to ever find peace. If Malek was caught…if he was executed, she’d be the one to blame. Donato and his men only knew where he was heading because she’d been tracking him with her magic. Of course, she hadn’t meant it for harm. She’d only been looking in on him out of concern, but it had turned into a mess, all the same. Just as it always did with her – with her and men. 

With a sigh, she threw the covers off of her and slowly got out of her bed. With slumped shoulders, she moved to her third-floor bedroom window and opened the drapes. The sun was just rising, and as she looked into the east, she knew that’s where he would be that morning. 

She wasn’t a fool. She had no illusions that he loved her. To be honest, she didn’t even think that she loved him. But she could admit now that somewhere deep down inside of her, in a place that she’d thought she’d locked away tight years ago, there was a spark of hope for love. And wasn’t it amazing how hope could change everything. People could manage weeks without food. They could survive days without water. They could even live for several minutes without air. But Fringilla wasn’t sure how anyone could live even a second without hope. The hope for something better. The hope that someone could love her for her. Not for the way she looked, or her magical abilities, or her powerful, family name. Just love her for who she was down at her core. 

As the sun continued to rise and then shine on the City of the Golden Towers, the petite sorceress reached up and touched the magical amulet that was around her neck and hidden under her dressing gown. Feeling it resting against her skin and knowing that it was linked to the one that Malek wore gave her strength, and that spark of hope inside her began to kindle until it turned into a blazing fire. Eventually, with her jaw set, she spun around from the window. She glared at her closed bedroom door – behind which were her two jailors - and then her eyes began carefully scanning the shelves throughout her bedroom, looking for anything that she could use. By the gods, she was Fringilla Vigo - a graduate of Aretuza, a survivor of the Battle of Sodden Hill, and a one-time sorceress of the Lodge. Even if she could never win Malek back, she’d at least save him from the gallows. Or she’d die trying. She owed him that. 

oOo

  
  
_Mount Dealande_

The witcher, the Aen Seidhe, and the former Nilfgaardian soldier all halted their horses at the same time as they came out of the woods and into a clearing, and the eyes of all drifted upward. Off in the distance was a tall hill, covered in lush, verdant vegetation and spotted with the occasional thicket of trees. Flowing out of the mountain – from some underground spring - was a wide, clear stream that meandered its way down the hill and then through the woods that they’d just exited. High atop the hill, they could see a large, square-shaped, flat-roofed, stone structure. There was a smaller hill to the east of the large one, and it housed a similar looking building at its peak. It was a crisp, cloudless fall day, and the bright, mid-morning sun shone down on the high hill, giving it an almost magical glow.

“Is this it?” whispered Lydial, with a tone a reverence in her voice.

“Yeah,” Geralt whispered back. “Haven’t been here in…it’s gotta be over two decades. I was just passing through at the time, but, yeah, I remember this place – especially all the butterflies. It was quite beautiful.”

Malek turned his head and stared at the witcher’s profile. The big man had a contemplative look on his face, but he didn’t say anything.

“Ready?” asked the witcher, looking at his two companions. After receiving nods from both, he snapped his horse’s reins, and they all headed across an open plain towards the base of the hill. 

“Where to first?” asked Malek.

“How about the very top and then work our way down?” answered Lydial.

Geralt nodded but also smiled. “You just want to see Essea’s temple.”

The she-elf smiled back. “Am I that easy to read?”

“Starting to get to know the way you think – just a bit, anyway. You’re a female…so I’ll never understand you completely.”

Lydial casually reached for her skin of water hanging on her horse’s saddle, acted like she was about to drink, and then squirted the witcher instead. 

“See? That’s just what I mean,” said Geralt with a small smile, shaking the drops of water out of his hair. “I never would have expected that reaction.”

“We females have got to keep you on your toes…or you’ll get bored with us.” 

“Bored? Not bloody likely,” said Malek. “Amazed and confused by…frustrated with – without a doubt, but bored? Never.”

They all smiled at that.

A half hour later, the three finally reached the peak of the high hill. Along the way, they had seen a few foundations and partial walls made of stone, but even these remains were mostly covered over by grass and other vegetation. They assumed that these were the ruins of first-century, Aen Seidhe homes, probably from the city that had surrounded the Holy Temple. There were also large colonies of butterflies, either nesting in trees or flying about. They’d all paused to take in that colorful sight.

When they reached the large structure at the top, they dismounted and began walking towards its wide and tall portico. Geralt pointed to a very similar building located on a nearby hill, about a hundred feet lower in elevation.

“Looks like they built two temples. Wonder why?”

“I remember reading about this in one of the scrolls,” answered Lydial. “After the Conjunction, Gaineamh – the Essean high priest at the time – believed that the original temple had been irrevocably desecrated by both the Aen Seidhe disobedience and some murders that had taken place within. So, they built a second temple.”

“Then, why didn’t they just tear down the original. Why leave it standing?” asked Malek.

Lydial shook her head. “That I don’t know. The scrolls didn’t say.”

By then, the three of them were standing at the temple’s large, wooden doors. Time and weather had taken their toll on the entire structure, but especially the doors. Much of the wood was rotted, and there was a small hole at the bottom of one of the doors where it looked like a wild animal had burrowed its way through. 

“Seen better days,” said Geralt. 

At some point in the past, one of the doors had been pushed slightly open, but Malek went ahead and pushed it open wider by another couple of feet so that he could slide through. Once inside, only Geralt could see clearly as it was quite dark. The small amount of sunlight illuminating the interior came in through either the handful of holes in the ceiling where stones had fallen down over the centuries or the open front doors. The main hall was very large, with numerous colonnades scattered throughout supporting the ceiling. 

“There’s nothing here,” said Malek, “which I guess makes sense. It was abandoned.”

“Guarantee the other one’s empty, too,” said Geralt. “Whatever the Gearrlonians didn’t take with them back over the mountains, I’m sure was looted at some point over the last thousand years.”

“It’s such a shame. All that history lost,” said Lydial with a sigh. “Still, it’s pretty amazing to be standing here, where such giants of our faith once lived and worshipped.”

She looked at Geralt. 

“Evangeline would have loved this.”

Geralt met her eyes for a moment and nodded but then quickly turned away. He began walking around the large hall, inspecting the walls and seeing if his medallion could detect anything out of the ordinary. After a few minutes, he returned to Malek and Lydial, telling them that he’d found no doors or stairs – and certainly none leading down into the mountain’s “womb.”

“I don’t think there’s anything here,” he said. “Let’s try outside.”

“This may take a while, huh?” said Malek. “I was hoping this would be easy.”

“If we’re meant to find it, Essea will provide the way,” said Lydial.

“You really believe he exists, don’t you?” 

“It’s more than belief. I’ve been convinced.”

As the two continued their conversation on the temple’s portico, Geralt limped down the steps and walked a short distance down the hill. Eventually, he stopped and stood still, letting the sun’s rays warm his face. Then, he closed his eyes and just listened to the nature around him as he slowly breathed in and out for several minutes. He almost felt as if he was meditating, except that he had a lot on his mind. Finally, he spoke in a hushed voice.

“Lord, Evie said that…as long as I’m still breathing, then that means you still have some use for me,” he said in a whisper. “So, show me your will, Father. I am your servant. Just…tell me what you want me to do.”

He then opened his eyes and looked around him. He felt the breeze kick up a bit, but nothing else seemed to have changed. He was just about to turn around and face Lydial and Malek when something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. It was two Monarch butterflies flittering about upon the breeze. To Geralt, it looked as if they were playing “chase” with one another. As they started to fly off, for some reason, he decided to follow them. 

Malek and Lydial stopped their conversation and watched the witcher, not entirely sure what he was doing. When they saw him limp off towards the butterflies, they looked at each other, and without even speaking, they decided to follow. The threesome tracked the insects about a quarter way around the hill through bushes and trees until they finally came to the edge of the river that flowed down toward the plain below. Once there, the butterflies – and their pursuers - moved back up the hill, eventually coming to a sheer cliff face. The three could see one side of the temple at the very top of the cliff, and about a hundred feet below that, the clear spring burst forth from the mountain, creating a long water-fall down into a large collecting pool below. From there, the water morphed into the river along which they’d just been travelling. 

Geralt watched the two butterflies continue to fly higher and then back behind the waterfall, itself. A minute later, when the two insects still hadn’t emerged from either side, he shook his head at the sight. Had they gotten caught up in the water and drown? He wasn’t sure, but something about them was calling to the witcher. He limped along the edge of the collecting pool, and then he suddenly stopped. Now that they were behind the waterfall, they could see a large opening higher up in the cliff face. And, more than that, there was a way up to it. All along the cliff face, there were hand-sized indentions in the rocks that were several inches deep. To Geralt, it looked as if someone had once chiseled a type of ladder into the rock face. 

The witcher looked at his two companions.

“Could that be our ‘womb?’” he asked.

Lydial nodded, but Malek said, “That can’t be it, right? I mean, if it’s up there, it’s not very well hidden.”

“Well, we don’t know what’s waiting for us up there,” said Geralt. “But there’s only one way to find out. Come on.”

Even with his wooden leg, the witcher had no difficulty climbing the twenty-foot rock face due to his incredible upper-body strength. Lydial came next while Malek stood at the bottom waiting to catch her if she slipped. A minute later, all three were inside a small cave that was barely wide enough for them to stand shoulder to shoulder and that only went back into the mountain about twenty feet. As soon as Geralt had reached the top, he noticed the same two butterflies flittering about, but when he approached them, they flew out of the cave, out from behind the waterfall, and headed somewhere back into the sunlight.

“Did I see those two butterflies flying down as I was climbing up?” asked Malek.

Geralt just nodded. 

The big man looked into Geralt and then Lydial’s eyes. 

“This is not normal,” he said. “I may be starting to believe that this God, Essea, actually exists.”

They both just continued to look at him and nodded again.

“What’s his deal with butterflies, though?”  
  
“I have no idea,” answered Geralt.

Geralt,” said Lydial, looking around. “It doesn’t look like there’s anything here. Can you see anything?”

The witcher then turned and inspected the cave. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t see anything, but…let me go in a bit deeper.”

“Wait, Geralt,” said Malek, pulling a torch from the satchel on his side. “Can you light this, please?”

The witcher signed an Igni, and then the three began walking slowly through the very small and narrow cave. As they came to the end, Lydial let out an exasperated sigh. 

“There’s nothing. I thought for sure this was it.”

Geralt stood still, facing the cave wall, and then he shook his head. 

“No…there is something here.”

He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a palm-sized, circular disk – Nehaleni’s Eye. He waved it out in front of him, and suddenly the rocky, moss-covered, back wall of the cave disappeared, leaving another wall in its place. But this wall was very different. It was made of smooth stone and on its surface was an elaborate drawing. The drawing had a king sitting on his throne at its center, and around the throne, in a circle, were drawings of various objects. Above the king’s head was a drawing of a sword; to his left was a set of scales; near his left foot was an open scroll; by his right foot was a pile of coins; and finally, close to his right arm was a drawing of a wall with two sets of shackles imbedded into it. Each of the five drawings were connected to the throne by what looked to be small dots.

Above the drawing, etched into the stone, were words written in the oldest variant of the Elder speech. 

“Only the one called by God who follows the path of Altachadh shall enter,” said Lydial in a reverent voice. 

oOo

_Nilfgaard_

“You look awfully young to be a royal guard,” said Fringilla. “Just how old are you?”

“I’ll be nineteen in the spring,” said the young man proudly. 

Fringilla batted her eyelashes. “Oh, nineteen. Well, then, you are a man.”

Earlier that morning, she’d thrown open her bedroom door, confessed complete boredom, and asked the guards if they’d like to join her for a morning cup of tea. The two had quickly agreed – for very few men would ever turn down an offer to be in Fringilla’s presence. The three had been sitting in her bedchambers having a pleasant conversation for the last ten minutes. During that time, she’d done her best to keep her eyes from darting to the guard’s pocket which possessed the key to her shackles.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

“Oh!” said Fringilla brightly. “That must be our breakfast.”

“Allow me, m’Lady,” said one of the guards standing from the bedroom table and exiting the room. 

As soon as he’d left the room, Fringilla quickly turned her attention to the younger guard. 

“Would you like to see something amazing?” she asked seductively, standing up and stepping close to him.

“Uhm, uh, sure…I mean, yes, m’Lady,” he stammered.

Fringilla opened her hands in front of her, revealing a small, glass vial. It looked like something a woman would use to store her perfume. The sorceress jerked her head to the left, towards the outer room. She could hear the maid-servant rolling in their breakfast on a cart. Fringilla quickly turned back to the young guard.

“Look closely,” she urged.

Once she noticed the young man gazing intently at the vial, she pulled the stopper and tossed the contents towards his face while closing her eyes and turning her head. An incredibly bright flash of white light filled the room as the alchemical ingredients in the bottle reacted with the air. 

The guard let out a shout and fell backwards out of his chair, and Fringilla was on him in an instant, her hands searching through his pockets. But the young man was too strong for the petite sorceress and easily pushed her away. He yelled out for his companion as he staggered to his feet. He was waving one hand out in front of him while he had his other hand covering his eyes. 

“She blinded me! She blinded me!” he yelled.

Desperate, Fringilla rushed towards the guard, and when their bodies collided, he tripped backward, crashing right through her third-floor window. As he fell, he blindly reached out and grabbed the sleeve of her dress, pulling her through the window, as well. 

The sorceress heard the fabric of her dress rip, and then the guard plummeted with a yell. Fringilla lunged backward with both hands, miraculously catching hold of the window sill. She immediately cried out in pain as some of the jagged glass sliced through her fingers and palms, but she somehow was able to maintain her grip. A moment later, she heard a sickening thud as the young guard smacked against the ground of the courtyard below, his final shout dying in his throat. 

Breathing heavy, Fringilla – wide-eyed - looked over her shoulder, but she quickly glanced back up when she heard a noise coming from the interior of her bedroom. The other guard was suddenly there, standing above her and glaring into her face.

“I’ve got you now, you little witch!” he growled, reaching for her manacled wrists.

She couldn’t let herself be captured again. Not knowing what else to do, Fringilla immediately let go of the window sill, kicked off the side of the castle wall with her feet, and fell three stories towards the courtyard below.

oOo

“The path of Altachadh - what does that mean?” asked Malek, looking at Lydial.  
  
“He was a beloved elven king that ruled a city in the north several centuries before the Conjunction,” answered Geralt. 

Malek looked at Geralt, surprise clearly on his face.

“What? I read,” said the witcher.

Malek raised his hands, as if in surrender.

“Sorry,” he said with a smile. He then turned back to the wall. “So, then what’s with these objects around his throne…and what’s his path?”

“Well, King Altachadh was beloved and well-known for a lot of things,” said Lydial, who then stepped up closer to the wall. 

Geralt quickly grabbed her by the shoulder.

“Careful,” he said. “My medallion is twitching so…there’s something magical here.”  
  
She nodded and then stepped up close to the wall but was careful not to touch it. 

“He was a very powerful elf,” she said, pointing to the drawing of the sword above the king’s throne, “so, perhaps the sword is a symbol of his strength.”

“And I’m assuming he was a fair king,” said Malek. “Hence, the scales.”

“Yes,” said Lydial, nodding.

“And the pile of coins seems pretty obvious,” he continued, “but what do the other two drawings represent?”

“Well, he was also revered for his wisdom so…I think the scroll is a sign of his intellect and education.”

“And that wall?” asked Malek.

“It’s a ‘purification’ wall,” answered Geralt. “It’s where he dispensed his justice.”

“Got it,” said Malek, nodding his head. “So, there’s obviously some way past this wall. Anyone got an idea how to do it?”

Neither Lydial or Geralt immediately answered him, both of their eyes moving quickly over the drawings. A moment later, Lydial leaned in a little closer to the wall. 

“These dots…aren’t dots,” she said, her face just a foot away from the drawing. “They’re actually little footsteps.”

“The path of Altachadh,” the witcher said in a whisper.

“Great. So…we just need to figure out which path he took,” said Malek. “Perhaps, if we touch the right drawing, then the wall opens?”

“Maybe,” answered Geralt. “But we probably need to be very careful. I’ve faced riddles like this before. There’s always a consequence if you guess wrong.”

“Right. So, then, which drawing is it? You said he was known for all of those attributes.”

“Lydial, can you read the inscription again, please?” asked the witcher.

“Only the one called by God who follows the path of Altachadh shall enter,” she said. After a pause, she continued. “It could be a play on words.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, ‘Altachadh’ is more than just his name. It’s also a derivative of two words in the Elder speech - ‘undeserved favor.’”

“Grace?” said the witcher. “His name actually means ‘grace’?” 

She nodded. 

“So, the inscription could be saying that whoever follows the path of grace shall enter?”

She nodded again, and the two immediately turned and looked at the same drawing.

“What? What is it?” asked Malek. “What are you thinking?”

“It’s the ‘purification’ wall,” answered Lydial in an excited voice, and then she quickly explained the story of King Altachadh and his son Eirich to Malek.   
  
“Okay. That makes sense,” said Malek, after hearing their theory. “But which one of us touches the wall. Who’s ‘the one called by God’?”

Lydial and Geralt stared at each other.

“It’s gotta be you,” the witcher finally said.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

“Because the Aen Seidhe are Essea’s chosen race, and you’re the only full-blood Aen Seidhe here.”

“Maybe,” she said, “but, Geralt…you believe, as well, right? Essea is your God, too, isn’t he?”

The witcher looked into her eyes. While he’d certainly contemplated those very topics many times in the last month, this was the first time that anyone else had ever directly posed those questions to him. He only had to consider them for just a second before he clearly realized what his answer was. He gave a nod of affirmation to the elf.

She nodded back. “Then, that means that he’s called you, too.”

Nobody said anything for a moment until Malek spoke up.

“I agree with Lydial” said Malek, nodding his head and looking at the witcher. “I vote for you, too. You’re the one that Nazairene carpenters are having strange visions about. You’re the one that’s been sent butterflies – both the glowing and non-glowing types. You’re the one finding lost scrolls in caves. I think it’s you.” 

Geralt looked at the two of them and sighed.

“Well, I don’t feel like the one,” he said. 

Lydial smiled and said, “Since when has faith ever been about our feelings? Our faith is based on Essea’s promises. And, Malek’s right, Geralt – Essea has clearly been leading you up to this point, and somewhere in all of that leading, there’s an implied promise of some kind, even if we don’t know exactly what it is right now.”

The witcher didn’t respond. He dropped his eyes from Lydial’s, and then reached up and rubbed his hand down over his beard. After a moment, he exhaled deeply, nodded his head, and looked at the she-elf again.

“Alright. In that case, you two need to back up. Way back…just in case we’re wrong.”

As they moved behind him, he approached the wall, stopping just a step away. He raised his hand and then slowly – with his palm out – reached out toward the drawing of the purification wall. But when he was just inches away from touching the stone, he suddenly stopped, for it was at that moment that he remembered the details of the story of King Altachadh. He quickly closed his hand and then brought it back down to his side. He stood there, staring at the drawing of the purification wall, and remembered the mercy and grace that the king had shown his son. But while that grace had come free to Eirich, it had not been free for the king. It had cost him dearly. It had cost him his blood.

The witcher looked down to the knife strapped to his right thigh, quickly pulled it from its scabbard, and then made a shallow cut across his palm. He sheathed his blade and then watched his blood begin to drip from his hand. And then, once his entire palm was covered with his blood, he raised his hand again and firmly placed it against the drawing. 

The witcher suddenly felt his medallion twitch, he heard a rumbling noise, and then the stone wall split into two pieces and swung open, revealing a very dark passageway behind it.

oOo

_Nilfgaard_

Fringilla plunged through the air, bounced off a thick branch of a nearby tree, shattering several ribs, and then continued on her descent. A moment later, she hit the ground and cried out in agony as she heard several bones snap, intense pain radiating throughout her body. 

She turned her head to look at the dead guard next to her and then began crawling towards him. As she was rifling through his pockets, she could hear people yelling in the distance, causing her search to become more frantic. She quickly found the key and unshackled herself from the dimeritium cuffs. As she tossed the manacles away from her, she glanced down because something had caught her eye. Her eyes widened to see that her dress was soaked with blood. 

She reached for her skirt, and pain shot through her wrist. She looked at it to see that her right forearm was hanging at an unnatural angle. She let it fall to her stomach and then grasped her skirt with her left hand and pulled upward. She almost vomited at the sight. Her left shin bone had snapped in two and had sliced right through her muscle and skin, poking out right below her knee. The whiteness of the bone was offset by all of the bright, red blood pulsating out of the wound every time her heart beat. 

Fringilla quickly let go of her skirt, and with a moan, she rolled off the guard’s body. She reached up to the amulet around her neck, held it tightly and concentrated. And then, with a chant and a flick of her wrist, a portal opened right next to her. She crawled towards the magical opening as the yelling voices of palace guards got closer and closer.

  
oOo

The witcher stood motionless with Lydial on his left and Malek – still holding a torch – on his right. The three of them were all staring down at the same two objects that were resting on a thigh-high, rock slab. One was long and thin and wrapped in some kind of old, mostly-disintegrated material. Through that porous cloth, a sword’s scabbard was clearly visible. In front of the weapon was a small, stone-like vase.

The witcher suddenly bent down – eye-level with the vase – and gave it and the sword a very close, visual inspection. He inhaled deeply but didn’t smell anything out of the ordinary. He then slowly walked around the rectangular, stone slab, all the while trying to detect any type of danger, but neither his medallion nor his senses warned him of anything magical. 

Now, standing again in between his two companions, he said, “I don’t sense anything so…I say we see what’s in the vase.”

He looked at both of them, and they gave him a nod. He could easily hear both of their hearts beating fast and loud. He then reached out and carefully grasped the vase with both hands. When nothing happened, he then picked it up and brought it to his chest, but he didn’t look down at it. His eyes were rapidly scanning his surroundings, just waiting for something evil to pop out.

After about thirty seconds, he exhaled. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been holding his breath. He reached down and grabbed his knife and then slowly cut through the hard wax that was sealing closed the vase’s lid. He sheathed his knife and then carefully removed the lid. As he did so, all three automatically brought their heads together to look inside. They saw two, thin scrolls.

Geralt looked at Lydial. 

“Why don’t you do the honors?”

Lydial slowly reached her hand in and pulled out one of the scrolls. She very carefully opened it and then turned it towards the light of Malek’s torch.

She quickly looked up at Geralt and Malek.

“It’s from Taibhsear,” she said excitedly. “He was the last Aen Seidhe high priest before they were taken into exile.”

She then looked back down at the scroll and continued reading. A moment later, she inhaled sharply.

“It’s a warning…about the Sword.”

“What’s he say – exactly?” asked Geralt.

“‘If you are reading this, then I trust that you are the one called by Essea, the one of whom God’s angel spoke to my brother, Maccarreg. But be forewarned of the sword you see before you – the Sword of Destruction. It has earned its name. It is a weapon of tremendous power and overwhelming evil. If you choose to possess it, then know this - it will possess you. You will kill your neighbors, your friends, your family and loved ones. You will eventually even kill yourself. This sword truly destroys everyone it touches so I urge you to use the wisdom of God. May Essea keep you.’”  
  
“Well, that sounds…ominous,” said Malek.

“Yeah,” agreed Geralt. He then looked at Lydial. “What’s the other one say?”

She reached into the vase and pulled out the other scroll. She again used care in opening it and then began to read.

“‘I, Maccarreg, son of Gaineamh and Darab, and faithful warrior for Essea, have this word from the LORD -’”

Suddenly, a loud bang and a bright light flashed inside the cave. 

Geralt and Malek immediately drew their swords as a magical portal opened up just a few feet away, but for several long seconds, they just stood there, waiting - for no one was stepping through and into the cave. Finally, they all noticed a petite woman with short, black hair crawling out of the opening. As soon as she was clear, the portal closed and disappeared. 

Fringilla looked up and quickly found Malek’s face. 

“Forgive me,” she said weakly, collapsing to her side. “They’re coming for you.”

All three rushed toward the sorceress at once. Malek got there first, kneeled down next to Fringilla, and held her head in his hands. 

“Who’s coming?” he asked.

“Donato…and his army,” she said before going into a coughing fit, which made her then cry out in pain. When she looked back at Malek, tears were in her eyes. 

“You were right, Malek…please forgive me.”

Geralt looked at Lydial.

“Evie, give her one of your health potions.”

Lydial didn’t even bother to correct him. She removed a vial from her pouch and helped the sorceress drink it down. 

“Damn it,” said the witcher, inspecting Fringilla’s legs and seeing both the shin bone sticking out and bright red, arterial blood flowing fast. 

“Gotta stop this bleeding.”

He then grabbed his knife and sliced off a lower portion of the sorceress’ dress. He pushed her skirt up towards her waist, and once he had her upper leg exposed, he began wrapping the long strip of fabric around Fringilla’s left thigh as tightly as he could. He then grabbed the empty potion vial, twisted the ends of the fabric around it and began twisting the vial in a circular fashion – causing the fabric to cut into her flesh even tighter. 

He grabbed his water skin and poured it over the site of the wound, washing the blood away. While he inspected the site, he put his hand on Fringilla’s leg, just above the wound, and applied more pressure. At least a minute passed before finally he released his hand, but he continued peering closely at the area where the bone was protruding.

“Okay, it looks like the bleeding’s stopped – for now,” he finally stated. “Lydial, give her another potion.”

After the sorceress drank it down, Geralt asked, “Where else do you hurt, Fringilla?”

“My wrist…my ribs.”

Geralt turned to Malek. 

“I’ll deal with her. Go see if we’ve got any visitors.”

Malek nodded, grabbed a second torch from his satchel, lit it from the first, and then ran out of the room and into the passageway.

oOo

  
  
It took Malek a quarter of an hour to reach the top of the hill, but once there, he quickly found an ideal position which would give him both concealment and a perfect view of the south and west – the most likely direction of any Nilfgaardian approach. He’d only been scanning the terrain down below for about five minutes when he saw them. 

“Son of a…” he whispered to himself, and then he got up and starting running down the hill, back towards the water fall.

Fifteen minutes later, out of breath and sweat pouring down him, he entered the cave to see Geralt and Lydial both kneeling next to Fringilla. He looked at his former lover and winced. She was a pale as a sheet and not moving. He stopped at her feet, and both Lydial and Geralt looked up at him.

“Is she…?” he asked.

The witcher shook his head. “No. But she’s lost a lot of blood. She needs medical attention beyond what I can provide.”

“Well, then let’s hope the Nilfgaardians brought a surgeon with them.”

“Damn it. So, they’re here?”

Malek nodded. 

“How many?”

“At least two hundred, maybe more.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Lydial. “We can’t let them get their hands on the Sword. We know what will happen.”

Geralt shook his head. “Even at my best, I couldn’t beat fifty men at once. No way I can defeat hundreds. Not now.”

No one said anything, the silence lasting several seconds.

“We don’t have to beat them,” said Malek. “We just gotta keep them from using it, right?”

Geralt and Lydial both nodded. 

“Right,” continued Malek. “So, we destroy it.”

“Alright,” said Geralt. “That doesn’t make any sense, but alright.”

“What? What doesn’t make sense,” asked Lydial.

“I’m all for destroying it, but…if God wanted it destroyed, then why did he tell Maccarreg to bring it here. Why didn’t he just let him toss it into the ocean like he wanted to in the first place?”

“I don’t know,” said Malek, moving quickly over to the stone slab. “That’s something we can ask him later.”

“Wait!” said Geralt. “Just wait. Before we move it, what’s your plan?”

Malek quickly looked around the cave, and then he spotted something in the corner. 

“There, that boulder. We place the sword against this slab at angle and then we toss that boulder at it. Between the two of us, we should be strong enough to lift it, and it should snap the damn thing in two.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” said the witcher. “Let’s give it a shot.” 

He then got up, moved over to the slab and looked closely at the Sword. 

“The hilt is on this end,” he said, pointing. “Gotta make sure we don’t come in contact with it. Only hold it by the scabbard.”

“Be my guest,” answered Malek.

The witcher then looked at Malek and then Lydial. He then took a deep breath. 

“Okay. Here we go.”

Geralt reached out and, gritting his teeth, grabbed the Sword’s scabbard. A second later, when nothing happened, he exhaled slowly and gave a small smile. He quickly placed the Sword’s hilt against the edge of the stone slab, with the scabbard’s tip on the cavern floor. He then moved over to where Malek was already standing by the large rock. 

The two men – with loud grunts – rolled the semi-square-shaped rock towards the Sword, stopping once it was only a few feet away. They then slowly lifted the nearly half-ton boulder to their waist. 

“On three!” grunted Malek, and then the two began swaying the boulder back and forth.

“One, two, three!”

The boulder flew from their hands and landed right in the middle of the Sword, but instead of the weapon snapping in two pieces like they’d hoped, the large rock simply bounced off and crashed to the floor of the cave. All three of them just stared at the Sword, in shock at what they’d just seen.

“It’s not even bent. Not even a little,” said Malek, now bending down to inspect the Sword. He then stared at Geralt, the look on his face one of both amazement and fear. “That shouldn’t be possible. What in the world is this thing?”

“Exactly,” said Geralt. “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you – we’re dealing with things not of this world.”

Malek swallowed and nodded. He slowly stood and just stared down at the weapon next to him. He then looked over at Fringilla, still unconscious and lying on the floor of the cavern. 

“If we can’t destroy it,” he said, “then…we’ve got to use it.”

“What? Are you insane?” said Lydial. “We all heard Taibhsear’s warning. We know what the Sword will do to whoever wields it.”

“Several hundred soldiers are out there, coming this way,” said Malek, pointing in their general direction. “And they are going to scour this mountain until they finally find us. My…my daughter died trying to keep this damn thing out of Nilfgaard’s hands. I will not let her death be in vain. And, even if they don’t actually find us, by the time they leave, Fringilla will be dead. So, we cannot just sit here. Using the Sword is the only logical choice.”

He looked at the witcher, who was slowly shaking his head.

“I understand that, Malek, but if I use that Sword – if I even touch it – this whole world is doomed. With that Sword in my hands…everyone dies. Do you understand that? I know the evil that I already have inside of me, and I would not stop with those two hundred men out there. I would kill everyone and anyone I see. Hell, most likely, I’d turn right around, come in here, and slaughter you all, too. And there wouldn’t be a damn thing you could do to stop me.”

The two men stood there, staring each other down, until Malek looked over at Fringilla. He nodded, and then his eyes shifted back to the witcher’s.

“You’re right, Geralt. You’re right. So, it can’t be you. It’ll have to be me.”

Geralt gave an exasperated sigh. “Malek, that won’t make any difference. What – do you think you’re strong enough to fight off the Sword’s influence?”

“No. No, I don’t,” said Malek shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure that it will overpower me as it has everyone else.”

“Then, friend…what’s to keep you from going off and terrorizing the rest of the continent - killing families and innocent children? What’s gonna stop that Sword from turning you into the very thing you hate the most?”

Malek glanced down at the small pouch on Geralt’s belt, and then he looked back up at the witcher. A small, sad smile came to the big man’s face. 

“You will, Geralt. You will.”


	43. Chapter 43

Book 3: The Wolf Dies  
Chapter 11

Emperor Donato Vigo was conferring with his military commander. The two of them – plus the emperor’s mage, Jaakko – were on their horses behind his three hundred soldiers, who were still in formation near the base of the hill in six ranks of fifty men each. The two men were debating whether to break the soldiers into smaller units in order to search the hill for Malek and the witcher or to simply keep the men in one large formation. 

Suddenly, a mounted soldier approached the three men in great haste. After halting his mount, he gave a bow of his head towards Donato.

“Your Excellency,” voiced the soldier in excited tones, “Commander Bakker, someone is descending the hill.”

“Who?” asked Donato.

The soldier shook his head. “He’s still too far away to be seen clearly, Your Grace, but it looks to be Malek, Sire.”

Donato looked at Bakker, and then they spurred their mounts, quickly riding to the front of the formation. A minute later, they – along with all of the soldiers – were peering at a position about half-way up the mountain. Standing there was a lone man, who was simply staring down at the Nilfgaardian unit.

His soldier had been right, thought Donato. The solitary figure did appear to be Malek. But the emperor didn’t smile, for he had no illusions that Emhyr’s right-hand man was descending the hill to simply surrender. 

oOo

Malek looked down towards the base of the hill and saw hundreds of Black One soldiers in formation, their armor gleaming in the midday sun. Scattered throughout the troops were several Nilfgaardian banners – a bright golden sun on an all-black field – snapping in the wind. A small, wistful smile came to his face because it all looked so glorious. His memory flashed back to all those decades ago when – as a young boy – he’d seen the black-clad soldiers parade into his little, oppressed town and restore order. There was something inside of him that still longed for the peace and the justice and the stability that the Empire had once so clearly and firmly represented to him. But, then, he remembered all that he’d given up – and all that he’d lost - by being a part of the Nilfgaardian machine. And the smile slowly fell from his face as images of Hannamiel and Evangeline flashed through his mind. 

His eyes moved from the Nilfgaardian formation and drifted down to what he was holding in his left hand. He stared at the sheathed Sword for several long moments before gazing at the two objects in his right. Eventually, he exhaled deeply, gave a short nod of his head, and then he quickly looked again at the Blackclad army below before finally casting his eyes upward to the clear, blue skies. 

“God…I don’t know if you exist, but, right now, I really want you to. I want to believe in you,” he whispered, his eyes searching the skies. Then, he closed them and stood still, slowly breathing in and out. “So, I place my life and soul in your hands. May you forgive me for all I’ve done…and for what I’m about to do.”

Malek then opened his eyes and brought his right hand up to his mouth. He uncorked a vial with his teeth and spit out the stopper before doing the same with the second. Then, he remembered his last conversation with Geralt.

_“The potion’s called Black Blood, and it is very unpleasant to drink – even for me, with my mutations. I have no idea what it will exactly do to you, but I have no doubt it’s going to be a very painful death.”_

_“How long will I have?” asked Malek._

_The witcher shook his head. “No idea. I’ve never seen a human drink it before.”_

_The big man nodded. “Well, hopefully, I can stay alive just long enough to complete the job.”_

_He then bent down to kiss the unconscious Fringilla on the forehead and gave Lydial a hug before exiting the cave._

Malek looked down into the black liquid a final time, took in and blew out another big breath, and then brought the potions to his mouth, tipping his head back and swallowing them down. Before he’d even felt their effects, he tossed the empty vials to the ground and grasped the hilt of the Sword of Destruction. And in that instant, any goodness that could be found in Malek VanderBosch was swallowed by the darkness. 

oOo

Emperor Vigo had only been looking up at Malek for less than a minute when he and his mount were startled by the most intense and menacing screams he’d ever heard. All of the rest of the horses in the formation also began to nervously whiny, their muscles twitching in fear at the horrific noise. After getting his horse under control, Donato looked back up the hill to see that Malek was no longer standing. From that distance, it was difficult to ascertain, but it appeared that the man was writhing on the ground in agony. 

The emperor turned to his left.

“Bakker, send twenty men!” he yelled. “Now!”

Immediately the field marshal gave the orders, and a platoon of mounted soldiers galloped up the slope. Donato’s heart was racing as his eyes flicked back and forth from Malek to his approaching riders. His men were half way up the hill when he noticed that the screaming had stopped. 

The giant man stood and slowly began walking down the hill until the Nilfgaardian soldiers reached him. Donato watched in anticipation as his troops encircled Malek, who quickly raised his weapon and swung it in the air over his head as if it were a whip. Suddenly, a tremendous flash of light shot forth from the blade. It was so bright that even from that distance, the emperor closed and shielded his eyes. A moment later, when he opened them again, he saw all twenty of his soldiers - and most of the horses - on the ground. 

Vigo’s eyes quickly shifted to Malek, who raised his weapon straight up into the air and gave a mighty roar. Suddenly, the skies above Donato cracked with a bang, and balls of fire began raining down on the Nilfgaardian ranks.

Malek continued to walk slowly down the hill towards the plain below. Every few seconds, he’d aim his blade either at the scattering soldiers or upward in the air, each thrust punctuated by a terrifying roar. And with each thrust, more and more destruction was brought down upon the Black Ones – walls of fire; dozens of lightning strikes; giant, magical hornets with lethal stingers. At one point, the ground even opened up and swallowed down a platoon of soldiers. Whatever twisted, violent means of death Malek’s mind could imagine, the Sword could accomplish. It only lasted several minutes, but to the Nilfgaardians down on the plain fleeing for their lives, time stood still. Their only focus was escaping the hell that was cutting them down in swaths. And, then, as quickly as it had started, it stopped. 

The man who had once been Malek fell to his knees, a horrendous yell escaping his throat. But, unlike the previous shouts of terror, this one was full of fear and pain. The Sword of Destruction fell from his grip, and he immediately followed it down to the ground. Holding his head in both hands, he screamed until his vocal cords tore. And then, suddenly, the screaming stopped and his hands fell lifelessly to the grass. His dead eyes stared upward toward the cloudless sky as blackish-red blood flowed from his eyes, nose and mouth, covering his once handsome face.

oOo

Unbeknownst to Malek, Geralt – under his invisibility spell – had watched the massacre from higher up on the hill. After seeing the man who he now considered a friend fall and die, the witcher’s eyes shifted to the plain below, and he cursed silently to himself. While the flat land was littered with hundreds of corpses of both Nilfgaardian troops and their mounts, Malek had succumbed to the witcher potions before he could fully finish his mission. It seemed to Geralt that there were at least a few dozen troops now rising from the carnage, and they were all gazing upward to where Malek had once stood. A few had even started to take their first tentative steps in his direction. Geralt immediately got to his feet, and with his one good leg, began to half-run, half-skip down the hill as fast as he could. He had to get to the Sword before anyone else. 

Less than a minute later, Geralt came to where Malek had first unsheathed the Sword. He quickly bent over to pick up the scabbard from where it had fallen and then continued on down the slope. As he ran, his eyes were constantly shifting between the Sword that was just ahead and the soldiers down at the base of the hill. Just as he approached Malek’s corpse, his concealment Sign elapsed, and he instantly became visible again. He paused when he looked at his friend. The curse of the Sword had turned Malek’s hair milky-white, just like his own. He furrowed his brow at the sight, but he knew he didn’t have time to ponder just what that might mean. Instead, he knelt down and slowly sheathed the Sword’s blade with the scabbard, being very careful to never actually touch the Sword, itself. 

With the weapon now in hand, he was about to re-cast the invisibility Sign when he suddenly realized that it no longer mattered. It was obvious that the soldiers below had spotted him for he heard their shouting. He looked down the hill to see the remnant staring up at him but not advancing. That made sense, Geralt thought. They were waiting to see what he would do next. Waiting to see if he would use the Sword to finish the task that Malek had started. The witcher continued to look down at the soldiers, and he suddenly realized that he had absolutely no idea what to do. He almost laughed, but not in joy. Just at the ridiculousness of the situation. The remaining soldiers were clearly not going to attack him when he possessed the weapon. And yet, he knew that he would never wield it. They were at a stand-off.

The witcher’s eyes began scanning the plain, counting all the still-living men standing below. A moment later, he cursed again. He’d counted well over thirty soldiers. With only one good leg, he knew that he could never defeat that many. So, there was only one thing he could do. He had to get back to the hidden cave. If he could get back there, then he had a chance to pick them off one-by-one as they climbed up the rock-face behind the waterfall. 

Geralt slowly placed the Sword on the ground and then brought his two hands together to cast his invisibility Sign, but it didn’t work. He had cast the Sign four to five times in a row while watching Malek use the Sword, and, now, he was magically depleted. He’d have to wait a few minutes – a few minutes that he knew he didn’t have - before he was able to successfully cast any more Signs. The witcher cursed under his breath and then retrieved the Sword from his feet. Standing up straight, he gave the Blackclad troops one last look, and then he very slowly turned around and began walking back up the hill. 

He’d only taken a few steps when he heard a distant noise behind him, causing him to look over his shoulder. His eyes went wide as he saw the remaining soldiers not only coming up the hill but coming up at a run. He quickly turned his head and looked to see how far away the cave was. He knew he’d never make it. Even the average soldier was faster at a run than he was now. He immediately began searching the terrain for any kind of help. His eyes stopped when they landed on the temple at the top of the hill, and he instinctively took off at a run. 

A minute later, Geralt skipped up the steps of the portico. At the top, he turned around and gazed down the hill. The Black Ones were still halfway down the slope, but they were approaching fast. He quickly slid through the front doors of the temple, tossed the Sword to the floor, and pushed the doors closed. He looked down and saw that the doors had a locking mechanism, but it was clearly rusted and broken. He knew there was no way – even as strong as he was – that he could keep the doors shut against thirty men. He turned around, and his eyes began frantically searching the interior of the temple for anything that might help him. He then stopped and stared at a nearby column, a column supporting part of the temple ceiling. 

He ran over to the Sword, picked it up and tossed it further away from the front doors, and then approached the column. He turned around and looked at the front entrance, making quick calculations in his head. He glanced down at his chest to suddenly remember that he no longer had a bandolier and, therefore, he had no more explosives. He’d used them all in destroying Eilhart’s gargolem back in Maecht. But, then, he remembered his crossbow, and he pulled it and the small, attached quiver off his back. 

The witcher put an explosive-tipped bolt into the weapon, aimed near the top of the column and fired. The bolt contacted the stone and exploded, causing a crack to run horizontally through the column. He quickly re-loaded, ran to the other side of the column and fired again toward the top. Another explosion followed and the crack at the top of the column got deeper. He loaded a third bolt and circled the column again. He was standing where he he’d been before, in between the column and the front doors. He fired the crossbow, this time near the column’s base. After seeing the result that he desired, he simply threw the crossbow over towards the Sword, not even bothering to return it to the hook on his back. He rushed over to the far side of the column, immediately pressed both his hands onto the stone, and pushed with all his strength. 

Geralt cursed again because it wouldn’t even budge. So, he took a step back from the column and blasted the area near the base with several charges of Blyx. His lightning-like Sign blasted huge chunks from the stone, and it was then that he heard a cracking sound. He quickly rushed forward and began pushing against the stone column again. Finally, slowly, the damaged column began to tip towards the front entrance, and then gravity took over. But the witcher didn’t stand around and wait to see the results. As soon as the column started falling towards the doors, he turned and fled as fast as he could. 

There was an enormous crash behind him as the huge stone column came down right by the front doors, and just a moment later, three or four large rock slabs in the ceiling fell to the temple floor. As dust flew into the air, Geralt looked up and held his breath, waiting to see if the entire temple ceiling was going to collapse down on top of him. After several tense moments, he exhaled deeply as it seemed that the rest was going to stay in place, after all.

The witcher quickly moved towards the front entrance and gave a nod of his head at what he saw. The giant, stone column wasn’t in direct contact with the doors, but it was only about a foot away. Only the thinnest of soldiers – and even then, without any of his armor - would ever be able to squeeze through the twelve-inch opening. And even if they could, they’d then have to climb over the smooth, rounded column, where the witcher would be waiting with his steel blade in hand. 

Geralt slowly turned around and looked at the interior of the temple. With a large hole now in the ceiling, there was plenty of sunlight coming in, making the stark surroundings very visible. Geralt shook his head upon seeing nothing but stone walls.

“Good job, genius,” he growled. “You’ve trapped yourself in here. Now what are you gonna do?”

The witcher immediately spun around as he detected the clinking sound of armor-clad soldiers making their way up the steps of the temple’s portico. A moment later, he heard the shouts of the Nilfgaardian men on the other side of the wooden, front doors. He saw the door on the left being pushed open but - just as he’d hoped – only a few inches. As he slowly began walking towards the front door, he pulled his steel sword. He watched and listened intently for several long and tense minutes. Finally, he exhaled deeply when he realized that – for at least the moment – the Sword was safely out of their reach. 

Geralt sheathed his blade, looked upward thirty feet at the hole in the ceiling, and then gave a little sigh. There was nothing that he could climb in order to reach that exit, and he shook his head as he realized that he was at a complete loss as to what to do next. It was at that moment that he, suddenly, heard of voice coming from behind him. 

“Greetings, Geralt.”

The witcher spun around, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword and his eyes darting back and forth. He recognized that voice, but he could see no one inside the temple. He then heard laughter echoing off the stone walls.   
  
“Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” said the voice, and then from out behind a fifteen-foot high, square, stone structure located in the middle of the temple strode Gaunter O’Dimm. As he slowly walked towards the witcher, he gazed around him.

“You know, the Aen Seidhe certainly did have a gift for architecture. I will give them that,” said O’Dimm, now standing several yards away. He looked at Geralt and smiled. 

“But I doubt you want to discuss the finer details of architecture at the moment, do you?”

Geralt didn’t answer. He just stared at the Man of Glass. 

“For, once again, the witcher finds himself in dire circumstances. A platoon of soldiers at your doorstep. What will you do? Will you seek my assistance? No…you’ve made it clear you don’t want my help. And in this case, you don’t even need it…not when you have the means to defeat them right there in your hands.”

Upon hearing O’Dimm’s words, Geralt looked down to see that he was holding the Sword of Destruction by its scabbard. He blinked his eyes, confused by the sight. He honestly didn’t remember picking it up from the temple floor. So, how was it in his hand? The sunlight coming through the ceiling reflected off the Sword’s hilt and caught his eye. Until then, he’d never even bothered looking at the Sword too closely, but now, he had to admit that it was absolutely beautiful. 

“Oh, yes, it is beautiful,” said O’Dimm, as if reading the witcher’s mind. “But…will you use it? That is the question. Such the dilemma.” 

Finally, the witcher was able to break his gaze away from the Sword and look up at O’Dimm. He stared hard into the bald man’s eyes and then gave a single shake of his head.

“I’ll never use this. Just the fact that you seem to want me to tells me all I need to know.”

O’Dimm clasped his hands in front of him and smiled. 

“Is that so? Well, perhaps I can change your mind. Perhaps, you’ll want to use it after all…on me. What if I told you that I killed your precious Evie…and thoroughly enjoyed doing it?” O’Dimm’s face was still smiling, but his voice had turned ominously slow and deep. “If I told you that it pleased me greatly to see her heart beat for the last time as that final tear trickled down her face. And you, caught under that boulder, just feet away from saving her, but ultimately unable to do so. I still smile at the memory. How about now, Geralt? Feel like using the Sword now?”

The witcher didn’t respond, but O’Dimm looked at his face and laughed again.

“Oh, yes. I can see it in your eyes. Do it, Geralt. Grab the Sword and cut me down. You know it would feel so good.”

The witcher’s eyes bore into the Merchant of Mirrors, and then they quickly dropped down to the Sword in his left hand. He stared at the hilt, breathing in and out very deeply. In an instant, he dropped the Sword, and before it had even hit the floor, the witcher was running at O’Dimm with his silver blade drawn. He’d only taken two steps when O’Dimm clapped his hands once. Suddenly, Geralt froze, immobilized in place. 

O’Dimm looked at the witcher and cocked his head to the side, as if he was viewing some kind of strange, never-before-seen bug. The Man of Glass sighed and then walked up close to Geralt. O’Dimm snapped his fingers, and while the rest of the witcher’s body stayed immobile, his head and face came to life. Geralt blinked his eyes several times and then gazed down at his “frozen” body for a moment before looking up at O’Dimm, who was shaking his head at the witcher.

“Did you really think you could defeat me with your witcher’s sword? I’m actually embarrassed for you.”

O’Dimm reached out and took the silver sword out of Geralt’s grip and placed it back into its proper scabbard.

“There we go,” he said with a smile. “Back where it can’t do anyone any harm.”

“Why don’t you just kill me and be done with it, O’Dimm?” Geralt said through gritted teeth. “Go ahead, take your revenge for losing Olgierd’s soul.”

“Geralt…Geralt,” he answered with a laugh. “I could kill you with a snap of my fingers, but where would be the fun in that? And this has never been about Olgierd.”

The witcher shook his head. “Then, just what the hell do you want? What’s it been about?”

O’Dimm stayed silent for a moment and then shrugged, though the smile was still on his face. 

“Well, I guess there’s no harm in telling you now. My plan has clearly not succeeded.” 

Then, his smile disappeared.

“You want to know what this has been about? Why I’ve taken a special interest in you?” O’Dimm asked. “It’s about your newfound god. I simply wanted you to see the truth, Geralt. To see just how foolish your faith in him truly is.”

Geralt furrowed his brow. “What? I don’t…”

O’Dimm shrugged. 

“I wasn’t successful in opening your eyes, but don’t worry – I have other plans for you.”

Geralt stared at O’Dimm for the longest time, and, then, something finally clicked in his mind. He clenched his jaw, and his eyes pierced those of the Master Mirror. 

“Malek was right. You were behind it all. Your presence in the papaver den, when that door was stuck. That’s why Benny died. And you probably hoped Evie would die out on that street, as well. But, she didn’t…so you made sure she died in that mountain cavern. All of that was your doing.”

The Man of Glass didn’t respond. He just stared back at the witcher with a neutral expression on his face. 

“You killed Evie…and Benny and no telling who else…because you don’t like my relationship with Essea? Why do you even care?”

O’Dimm smiled. “You know…we’re standing on the site of one of my greatest achievements. Did you know that?” 

With a wave of his hand, the four stone walls in the middle of the temple came apart and then slowly crumbled to the floor, revealing a large, metallic device. He gave a second wave of his hand, and immediately all of the dust on the device vanished. A few beams of sunlight made their way into the interior of the temple and reflected brightly off its surface. 

“Can you believe that they tried to destroy this magnificent work of art?” said O’Dimm as he turned to gaze at the shiny object. “Of course, when they discovered that they could neither damage it nor even move it, they just decided to build a wall around it. As if that could cover up their shame. They even went so far as to permanently close the doors to their most precious temple of Essea.”

O’Dimm then turned back to look at Geralt and spread his arms out wide. The witcher had never seen him look happier.

“So, for the last…almost thirteen-hundred years, this one-time temple to Essea has, instead, stood as a monument to their downfall…and to my glory. Ironic, wouldn’t you say?” 

O’Dimm’s laughter echoed off the temple’s walls. 

“Now, I call it my greatest accomplishment, but truth be told…I actually didn’t do much. I didn’t even have to. It truly is enjoyable to watch souls lead themselves down their own path of destruction. And most of the time, you don’t even need a nudge from me. You mortals truly are your own worst enemies.”

The sunlight sparkled off of the silver, glass-like contraption and caught Geralt’s eye. He looked closely at the twelve-foot high, metal object in front of him. Then his eyes moved over to O’Dimm, and then back to the device again. Suddenly, a memory of Evie popped into the witcher’s head. It was a memory of their first week together in the mines above Tarsus, when she had first told him of the myth of the rod of Apophis. He could hear his wife’s voice echoing in his mind:

“The Aen Seidhe began building a device, based on Apophis’ design, which would open a portal to Essea’s realm. There was a lone voice of opposition, an elven seer who warned against this course of action, but the elven leaders scoffed at his dire predictions, and the device was eventually completed. However, when it was activated, instead of opening a way to their god, the Conjunction of the Spheres occurred, bringing mayhem to the entire planet.” 

Geralt shifted his gaze to the Merchant of Mirrors and blinked his eyes several times as the truth finally dawned on him. 

“Your name’s not really O’Dimm,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Apophis…you are Apophis.”

The Man of Glass smiled widely. 

“Well, well, I have a scholar in my midst. I didn’t take you to be such a student of history. Though, we should probably give credit where it’s due, right? Little Miss Evie was quite the teacher, apparently.” O’Dimm then nodded. “It’s true, I have changed my appearance since then. My old look was a bit too conspicuous. I usually prefer to work in much more subtle ways. But, for you, old friend, I’ll let you see my true self.”

He snapped his fingers, and suddenly, Geralt had to blink back from the white light. Eventually, the light dimmed, and standing where O’Dimm had been was the most beautiful creature to ever walk the planet. A man in glowing white robes, long silver hair, and a flawless face. But, a face with the blackest of eyes.

“This is me, in all my glory. Breath-taking, huh?”

Geralt didn’t answer. He just stared at the being in front of him.

“It was you who caused the Conjunction,” the witcher said in an almost-whisper. “You brought the monsters to the Continent…and the humans…the Chaos and the Sword of Destruction…the annihilation of the Aen Seidhe. It was all because of you.”

O’Dimm just smirked.

“Why? Why do you hate the Aen Seidhe…and this world so much?”

O’Dimm’s smile suddenly vanished.

“Geralt, I don’t hate the Aen Seidhe. In fact, I actually feel sorry for them.”

Geralt just shook his head, confusion on his face. 

“I pity them…because they worship a pathetic, petty, megalomaniacal god. Essea,” he said with a sneer, “the god of the Aen Seidhe and of this insignificant world.” 

At that point, O’Dimm walked towards Geralt and stopped just a couple feet away. 

“You may have deduced my name, Geralt, but what you don’t know is that I was once his right hand, his most powerful and trusted angel.” Upon seeing the look on the witcher’s face, he said, “Surprising, no?”

Geralt was too shocked to say anything. 

“But I’ll be honest, Witcher – I never understood him. Never understood his ridiculous notions on love. So, I questioned him. I confronted him. As his most loyal warrior, I had the right. I asked him, ‘Who needs love when you have power?’ You know what he did, then? Banished me from his presence.” 

The look on O’Dimm’s face turned murderous. 

“Banished me! His most faithful!” he yelled while pointing at his own chest. 

Apophis then breathed deeply, composing himself. 

“And he calls himself the god of kindness and compassion,” he stated calmly. “So…I’ve spent the millennia since then showing him just what a fool he is. Proving to him that it is not love, but power and fear that ultimately compel a soul to follow. Showing him that – despite his love for them - his precious, chosen Aen Seidhe are nothing more than a stiff-necked, unfaithful, and rebellious nation.” 

Then, his smile returned. 

“And you know what – it hasn’t even been difficult. I just wave something shiny and pretty in front of their faces, and their idolatrous hearts do the rest. They so quickly forget about him. Or, I put them through a little hardship, and they turn on him in an instant. They invariably see what I’ve always known - that he’s not the god of goodness and wisdom and power…as he claims to be.”

Geralt was quiet. He just stared at the Man of Glass and shook his head. 

“So, all of this…the last…thousands of years of…death and destruction and chaos has been because you’re angry with God? And since you can’t actually hurt him…you just hurt what he cares about? And you call him pathetic.” 

“Best mind your tongue, Geralt,” O’Dimm said with menace.

“Or what – you’ll kill me? Go ahead. My soul is ready.”

The smile then returned to O’Dimm’s face. “Oh, no. I told you – I’m not going to kill you. I’ve got another plan for you.”

With a snap of his fingers, the Sword of Destruction levitated from the floor and came to a stop right in front of Geralt’s face. 

“You know, this weapon has always been very effective no matter who wielded it. But I’ve always been curious as to just what it could do in the hands of someone truly skilled – someone like yourself.” He then stepped several feet back from the witcher. “I can only imagine what a wonderfully terrible display that will be.”

O’Dimm flicked his fingers, and the Sword began slowly floating toward Geralt’s outstretched, right hand. 

The witcher began breathing fast as he stared at the hilt inch-by-inch approaching his open palm, and then he yelled out, hoping to somehow break O’Dimm’s magical bonds, but no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn’t move. Eventually, he stopped straining, and as he did, he could hear Apophis chuckling.

“Struggle all you like, Geralt. I’ve got more power in my little finger that you could ever even imagine.” He looked at Geralt with condescension. “Poor, misguided fool - you never had a chance against me. And, ponder this, Geralt – just where is your god now?”

The witcher was still breathing hard, and sweat was running down his brow from his futile exertion. He broke his gaze from the Man of Glass and looked at the Sword, which was only an inch away from his palm. Finally, he peered back into O’Dimm’s black, lifeless eyes.

O’Dimm smiled again at the witcher and then gave a final wave of his hand towards the floating blade. The hilt of the Sword instantly slapped into Geralt’s palm, and O’Dimm made a fist, causing Geralt’s fingers to involuntarily grasp tightly around the handle. And pain exploded throughout the witcher’s body. 

Geralt closed his eyes and clenched his jaw as he felt a rush of hate flood his mind. It was as if a dozen cirnubaugs – the creature from the Dol Blathanna palace – had invaded his soul. As the darkness began to overwhelm his psyche, he heard demonic voices echoing through his mind. 

“Kill,” they whispered. “Kill them all. Destroy the world. Turn it to ash.”

O’Dimm then released his hold on the witcher, and Geralt dropped to the floor of the ruins, falling on his face. 

The evil continued to call out to him – demanding blood - and he unconsciously curled into a ball, as if that would somehow ward off the attacks in his mind. The darkness and the voices grew thicker and louder until, miraculously, suddenly, Geralt sensed a tiny, white light appear in his mind’s eye. At first, the illumination was so small that it looked like it was a thousand miles away, just like the little, glowing butterfly that he’d seen all those weeks ago atop the Tir Torchair mountains. But it didn’t matter to the witcher how small the light was. He focused all his thoughts on it. And the more he focused on it, the closer it got and the larger it became. 

Geralt had no idea how long he’d been staring at the light. He didn’t know if it had been seconds or hours, but eventually, he sensed the light pushing back against the cirnubaugs in his mind, fighting back against the darkness, and it was, then, that Geralt noticed the voices of hate beginning to weaken. And in that moment, the witcher spoke a gentle plea – a plea of but a single word.

“Essea,” he whispered in his mind, knowing not what else to do but to call on the name of the Lord. 

Suddenly, the light in his mind exploded, and Geralt exhaled forcefully as the darkness, the voices, and the physical pain all fled his body at once. As he opened his eyes and began to control his breathing, he realized that the pain he’d been feeling throughout his body actually hadn’t been that overwhelming. Certainly not what he’d been expecting. In fact, he realized that the pain wasn’t any worse than what he’d gone through in the Trials.

The witcher slowly got to his feet, and when he looked down at his right hand, he did a double-take - shocked to see that the Sword was no longer there. Instead, he was holding a slender, six-foot long, shiny, silver staff. He lifted his head and looked at O’Dimm, who was also sporting a look of confusion. Then, a small beam of sunlight reflected off the large, metal device next to O’Dimm and once again caught the witcher’s eye. Geralt looked at the contraption and then down to the staff in his hand. 

And in that moment, Geralt again heard Evie’s voice coming to him:

“Renewal comes from the destroyer. Order from the wild. Of the same father, but not belonging. A lover of death, rebirth will come through him. Twisted yet straight, esteemed yet reviled, virgin yet marred. By his right hand, the world will be cleansed through the rod of Apophis.”

The witcher quickly shifted his eyes away from the mirror-like device and looked again at O’Dimm, who was still staring at both Geralt and the staff in his hand with a furrowed brow.

“That’s it?” Geralt rasped. “That’s all this Sword has got? My entire life…Essea has been helping me fight off voices…urges that were darker than those.” He then held up the staff next to him. “Looks like I won’t wield your Sword…or be your play-toy after all, O’Dimm. You lose again.”

Geralt then looked at the large device again but just for a moment. He quickly shifted his eyes back to Apophis. But he hadn’t schooled his features well enough. Essea’s former right hand had seen it. He’d noticed the fear in the witcher’s eyes when he’d been looking at the contraption. 

“Well, this is unexpected, Witcher,” voiced O’Dimm. “I must say – you are a man of constant surprises. It must be why I like you so much. At times, this world can be so very boring for me.”

Suddenly, Geralt thrust the staff forward toward the Man of Glass, hoping for a blast of magic. Something – anything. But, instead, the only result was O’Dimm’s laughter. 

“Curious. For some…unknown reason, my rod does not seem to affect you. Hmm, perhaps, it’s your mutations. Regardless, it’s a pity. I was so looking forward to seeing what you would do with it.” 

Before the witcher could make any other type of move, Apophis snapped his fingers again, and, once again, Geralt was immobilized. The Merchant of Mirrors looked at the staff in Geralt’s hand and then to his own device. When he turned back to face the witcher, he had the most evil of grins of his face. He slowly walked toward the “frozen” witcher, coming to a stop just behind him. He then leaned in close and whispered in Geralt’s ear.

“But that’s okay. I bet we can come up with an even better plan. I saw the fear in your eyes when you looked at my beautiful mirror. I know just what you were thinking, and it’s a grand idea. It’s been over a thousand years since the last Conjunction, and there are so very few monsters left on the Continent now. You witchers did such a thorough job of culling them. So, I think it’s high time for a second Conjunction. What say you, Geralt? We can bring a little more excitement back into the world. And – just to keep you on your toes, I may send one or two beasts to Dol Blathanna. I’d love to see if you can get there before the Aen Seidhe are finally wiped out, once and for all.”

O’Dimm then walked back around in front of the witcher. Their faces were only inches apart. 

“How about it, Geralt? Ready to go down in history as the man who brought about the second Conjunction?” He then laughed. “I wonder what nickname that will earn you. I doubt it will be very flattering.”

O’Dimm laughed again. “Oh, Geralt. The look on your face.” 

He then lifted his hand, which caused the witcher’s body to levitate off the floor a few inches. He walked slowly next to the witcher as they both approached the device. The staff was still in Geralt’s hand and thrust straight out in front of him. 

“And, here we go,” said the Man of Glass slowly, and with a final wave of his hand, Geralt floated forward, the staff inserting snugly into a port in the device. 

The rod of Apophis clicked perfectly into place, and as soon as it did, Geralt was released from O’Dimm’s grip. He landed on his wooden leg, immediately lost his balance, and fell to the temple floor. Instantly, he heard a buzzing in his ears and felt an energy pulsate through the air. He looked up just in time to see the giant mirror begin to slowly turn. 

Geralt stared at the device as it began to spin faster and faster. As it did, it also began to emit small sparks. He broke his gaze to look over at Apophis, who was smiling widely. 

“Do you feel that, Geralt!” he yelled to be heard above the whooshing noise coming from the spinning mirror. “Do you feel that power? That’s the only god you need to worship, my friend.”

The witcher didn’t bother to answer. He simply raised his forearm in front of his face to shield his eyes, for the spinning device was now glowing with an incredibly bright, white light. And it was then that he began to hear the loudest claps of thunder that he’d ever heard. They were echoing one after another all around the temple ruins, and they were so close that he could feel the ground tremble beneath him. As he looked upwards, expecting a lightning bolt to blast through the temple’s roof any second, heavy raindrops began to fall. 

“That’s not just thunder and lightning! Those are portals…opening up to other worlds!” yelled out O’Dimm. “You should feel special, Witcher. You’re about to witness a repeat of the greatest event in this Continent’s history. Essea chose this land to be the home for his special Aen Seidhe. Well, there’s about to be nothing left of either. And it’s all thanks to you.” 

oOo

Lydial moved from her hiding place in the bushes to get a better view of the front entrance to the temple. The two dozen or more still-living Nilfgaardian soldiers had created a make-shift battering ram and were in the process of trying to smash the front doors wide open, but she didn’t understand why the doors didn’t fall. The temple looked so old and wrecked that she thought that the entire structure should have crumbled down from just a strong wind. 

The she-elf knew Geralt was inside and she wanted desperately to help him, but she wasn’t sure what she could actually do. She could never defeat that many soldiers, even in a surprise attack. She was frantically brainstorming ideas when she suddenly and literally leapt in the air as a bolt of lightning struck the ground less than a hundred yards away. In an instant, the darkest, thickest clouds appeared above her and covered the sky, and raindrops fell heavy on the land. 

Then, one after another, dozens of thunder-like blasts echoed around her. With each thunder-clap, an enormous, bluish-white portal would appear in the sky. One of the portals was right near the temple entrance, and as she turned her head and scanned the valley below her, she saw a countless number of them all the way to the far horizon. She had never seen anything like it, but she knew immediately what is was – a second Conjunction of the Spheres. 

Lydial’s eyes immediately shifted back to the portal closest to her, and she unconsciously held her breath as she waited to see just what type of monster would spring forth. 

“Essea…God help us,” she softly prayed.

oOo

Geralt unsteadily got to his feet. He was breathing heavy, and his heart was beating faster than he’d ever felt it beat before. He slowly lifted his head and looked straight at the Man of Glass. Suddenly, the temple shook with the sound of a thousand trumpets as a portal appeared right behind O’Dimm. The Merchant of Mirrors turned around to look at the magical gateway and then turned back to face the witcher. What O’Dimm saw confused him, for on the witcher’s face was just the slightest of smiles. 

“You were right, O’Dimm!” yelled Geralt above the noise, staring right into his black, evil eyes. “We are about to witness the greatest event in the history of this world. But it’s not my doing. It’s yours. Actually, it’s God’s!”

Suddenly, O’Dimm frantically looked to each side and over his shoulder as he felt some force pulling him from behind. He immediately started sliding backward toward the portal so he threw both arms out to his sides and tried to take a step forward, but he couldn’t lift his foot from the floor. 

“‘By his right hand, the world will be cleansed through the rod of Apophis!’” yelled the Witcher, his smile now more of a sneer. “The fear you saw on my face…I wasn’t afraid that you’d use your staff to activate your device! Once I realized what the prophecy meant…I was afraid that you wouldn’t!”

Upon hearing this, O’Dimm let out a roar and glared at the witcher. He tried to bring his hands together to wield his power, but the force coming from the portal behind him was pulling his arms straight back. He tried to snap his fingers, but they seemed to be immobilized. He leaned his body forward as much as he could, every muscle in his being straining against the force of the portal. He didn’t understand it. This shouldn’t be happening. 

And then the truth dawned on him. There was only one force in the universe this powerful. Only one force that was greater than his. And he’d felt it once before – when he’d been exiled from Heaven.

Apophis yelled out in fury as he continued to fight against the portal but to no avail. He was slowly being pulled backward inch-by-inch.

Despite the portal’s pull on O’Dimm, Geralt felt none of it. He slowly limped toward his most powerful enemy, and stopping an arms-length away, he stared into the fallen angel’s eyes. 

“May God be glorified. And may you burn in hell…for eternity,” the witcher said through clenched jaws. “For Evie.”

He immediately shot his right fist forward and cast the most powerful Aard that he could. 

O’Dimm screamed as the telekinetic force knocked him from his feet, and he went sailing through the air, end over end, straight into the open portal. Geralt could hear Apophis’ scream echoing in the air until, suddenly, the portal instantly closed and disappeared. 

oOo

As Lydial stared at the portal in the sky, her attention was pulled away by screams coming from the temple entrance. She quickly shifted her eyes, and her jaw slightly dropped. The Nilfgaardian soldiers were levitating in the air and flying towards the glowing portal above them. She looked up at the magical gateway and noticed that nothing – no monsters of any kind – were coming out. There were only humans going in.

She swiveled her head to gaze through the heavy rain and stared out at all of the other portals off in the distance. She squinted her eyes, but she could see nothing exiting from any of them. In fact, it appeared that small objects – they were so far away that they looked like ants – were entering the various gateways. She shook her head. This was not what had happened during the first Conjunction. 

And then she understood. While the soldiers and other creatures were passing into the portals, she felt absolutely no pull on her body. Lydial quickly stood and then hesitantly walked to the portal near her. She stopped next to it and watched the last of the Nilfgaardians enter the gateway, and then, with a popping sound, the portal closed and vanished. 

Lydial turned back toward the portals in the valley. One-by-one, they also began to disappear. And then, she felt it – a rumbling coming from behind her. She felt the vibrations coming through the ground and into her feet. She quickly turned around to look at the temple ruins, and she saw the brightest of white light shining forth through the various openings in the walls and the ceiling.

oOo

The witcher looked at Apophis’ spinning device and a scowl came to his face. He didn’t think that it was even possible, but it was continuing to spin faster and faster. Sparks and now lightning-like bolts were firing off of it in every direction, and the entire temple floor was shaking – so much so, that he was having trouble standing upright. 

“Not good,” he mumbled to himself as he cast a Quen and then ran towards the temple’s front doors. 

Halfway there, he was blown off his feet as a lightning bolt from the device impacted his protective shield. He immediately cast another Quen and scrambled back to his feet. He glanced up and saw that Apophis’ device was blasting the temple to pieces, its bolts of energy knocking huge chunks of stone from the columns and walls. He quickly scurried toward the front doors and then placed both hands on the edge of the giant column blocking the entryway, but when he pulled against it, the enormous stone didn’t even budge an inch despite his incredible strength. 

By that time, the entire temple was shaking from the vibrating device, and a few stones from the ceiling broke loose and crashed to the floor below. The witcher knew his time was short before the entire edifice collapsed down on top of him. He turned and frantically scanned the interior of the temple – its walls and floor. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning shot forth from the spinning mirror, hit a column near the back of the temple, causing it the fall and smash through a wall. When the dust cleared, the witcher’s eyes went wide at what he saw. He couldn’t believe it. It looked like a door. He quickly glanced again at the device and watched it shoot out one lightning bolt after another, and he had to duck down as one charge struck the wall right above his head. He looked back at the door on the opposite end of the temple hall and inhaled deeply.

“Essea…keep me,” he whispered, and then he ran straight ahead into certain death.

oOo

Lydial took a single step toward the temple when her world exploded. She was blown from her feet and landed thirty paces away. She hit hard on her back, and the wind was knocked out of her. She lay on the ground – pain pulsating through her chest - doing her best to suck the oxygen back into her lungs. But even while doing this, she noticed the deafening ringing in her ears and the small chunks of stone raining down around her. So, she quickly curled up into the fetal position and covered her head with her arms. 

Within a minute, her gasping began to subside, and she felt the ability to breathe starting to return. She raised herself up on an elbow and looked at the temple. Or, rather, she looked at where it had been. The bright, white light was gone, and the temple was nothing but a pile of rubble. 

She struggled to her feet and began to run up the slope towards the ruins. When she reached the portico steps, she had to maneuver around and climb over several, large and heavily damaged stone blocks. She arrived to where the front doors had been and looked around. 

“Geralt!” she cried out several times. 

She then stopped to listen for a shout in return, but she heard nothing except the sound of the wind. She yelled the witcher’s name over and over but to no avail. With every minute that passed with no reply, more and more tears began to well up in her eyes. 

Eventually, she stopped, and just stood on the steps of the temple. She lowered her head and silently cried, the tears falling down her cheeks. 

“Geralt,” she said softly one last time.

She then turned around and sat down on the portico steps. She put her face in her hands and just sobbed. She cried for the man that had been more to her than just a friend. She cried for the man that she’d come to view as a son. And she cried for Evangeline. She cried for Benny and Malek, Vatslav and Isaac. And despite his betrayal, she even cried for Barcain. He was her grandson, and she still loved him. She’d lost so many that she loved in the last few months, and she grieved for them all. 

Lydial stayed there on the portico until she cried herself out. As she took her hands from her face, she suddenly sensed something strange. She couldn’t exactly articulate how, but her body felt different. The air around her felt unusual – as if it was lighter or cleaner. It was as if some kind of invisible, oppressive weight had been lifted from her. Just then, she felt a cool breeze blow over her, and she instinctively looked up toward the late-afternoon sky. The rain had stopped and the black clouds had vanished, to be replaced by a vibrant rainbow that ran from one end of the horizon to the other. She wiped a last tear from her cheek, and looking at the rainbow, she slowly nodded her head. 

“You’re a good God, Essea,” she said with a wistful smile on her face. 

Upon saying his name, she suddenly remembered the scroll that was still inside her satchel – the scroll written by Maccarreg. She pulled out the small, stone vase, and then carefully removed the parchment. She unrolled the scroll and began to read. As she got towards the bottom of the parchment, she let out a gasp. Staring at the letter in her hands, she slowly shook her head, a look of absolute amazement on her face.

“Oh, Geralt,” she whispered. “If only you could have read this.”


	44. Chapter 44

Book 3: The Wolf Dies  
Epilogue

_Beauclair, Toussaint; Spring 1517_

“I, Maccarreg, son of Gaineamh and Darab, and faithful warrior for Essea, have this word from the LORD:

“‘‘I am the everlasting God, the Creator of the heavens and the earth, the Savior of the world. I will not grow tired or weary. I hold the nations in my hand and steer the minds of kings. My wisdom is beyond understanding, and my faithfulness to my children will never end. I will redeem a remnant, my faithful, to be a light for all the world, for my name’s sake. 

“‘I delivered you out of slavery and gave you a land of your own. Yet, you turned from me to worship other gods, to worship yourselves. An arrogant race that boasted in what it possessed, though you received all by my hand. I bestowed upon you my holy code for your profit, as a father imparts wisdom to his children. Yet, you – fools who find no pleasure in understanding - spurned my wisdom. I sent my prophets and priests to you to warn you, to convict you of your betrayal, to draw you back to me, but you mocked my warnings. Your pride has led to your fall.

“‘Thus, when the great deceiver requested, I granted him permission to bring chaos and destruction. I used him as a rod of discipline for my children, to purge away your dross, to remove your impurities, to break your fingers that were holding on so tightly to the false gods of your hearts. 

“‘Yet, I, Essea, am forever faithful to my covenants for my name’s sake. As I promised your fathers before you, you are my children. I will always save a remnant, those who turn to me in repentance. And I will mend your fingers so that you can grasp the one, true living God. 

“‘Therefore, I will take you and keep you in the palm of my hand, from where none can reach you. I will display my providence. I yield my glory to no one. I am over all, even the great deceiver. His own meager power will be used when I have chosen to end the time of discipline. His tool of chaos will be my tool of peace. His instrument of death, held by my hand for my will, will bring cleansing and renewal.

“‘And I, Essea, God of the Aen Seidhe nation and of all the nations of the world, for my glory, have appointed an outcast to save my children; one who is hated and rejected; one who is familiar with suffering and pain. A man – indeed, a lowly, despised man, but one who I have adopted as my own – to redeem my chosen. I have appointed not a worldly king, one who wears a crown, who sits enthroned on a seat power, who commands legions to do his bidding – for I do not exalt the proud. No, I will use the least – an orphan - mutated, disfigured and lame – as my hand to show the depth and height and breadth of my majestic power, for I show favor to the humble,’ so sayeth Ghloirinevellienn, whose glory shines over all.”  
  
In the lush gardens of the pristine-white elven palace, a small class was being held. Around an elderly Aen Seidhe, clustered a dozen or so youth, ranging in age from ten to twelve years old. Next to the flowing spring that ran down into the Seidhe Llygad lake, the wrinkled and gray-haired elf rested on a short stool while her pupils sat around her in the thick green grass. Most of them were, like her, pure Aen Seidhe, but there was a human, a dwarf, and two students of mixed heritage in the group, as well. In the teacher’s lap was a thick book from which she had just finished reading. She peered up into the sky, and after seeing the sun’s location, she slowly closed the heavy tome. With her thin, frail hand, she tenderly patted the book’s cover – as if it were the cheek of a precious child – before lifting her eyes to those around her. 

She smiled at her pupils and said, “And that, my dear children, was Maccarreg’s last letter, revealing Essea’s sovereign plan, written over a thousand years before the Second Conjunction of the Spheres. The story of how what Apophis meant for evil, Essea miraculously meant for good.”

Like the rest of her outward appearance, the teacher’s feeble voice testified to her age. At well over two-hundred years old, she was considered ancient. For it was rare – ever since the Second Conjunction - for any elf born after that great, cataclysmic event to even live to be a century. The elven lifespan was now very similar to that of humans. 

But, unlike her voice and the rest of her body, the teacher’s eyes – they were different. They still possessed a spark of vitality and gave evidence to the sharp mind and the passionate spirit that she held within.

“Now, I do have a few questions for you,” she continued. “Can anyone tell us one way our world changed after this Second Conjunction?” she asked, brushing a few strands of gray hair back behind one ear. 

Several eager students immediately raised their hands into the air. 

“Yes, Illeryn?” she asked, looking at a young female dwarf.

“All the monsters disappeared…back to their own worlds,” she answered. 

“Very good. All the monsters were pulled through the portals – we assume they returned to their original worlds - and almost all of the humans and dwarves, as well.”

“Miss, why were some humans and dwarves allowed to stay?” asked one Aen Seidhe student named Lonek. “No offense, Illeryn,” he added with a smile. Illeryn smiled back at him.

“Well, what do you think, Lonek?” the teacher asked.

The young elf shrugged his shoulders. 

“Uhm…I don’t know…cause Essea wanted to keep them here?” 

The teacher nodded and smiled. 

“Essentially, that’s right. Remember, Essea is the God of all, not just the Aen Seidhe. He can and does save whomever he wants. And he welcomes any and all who come to him. He loves us all equally. We are all special in his sight. Now, can anyone else tell us another outcome due to the Second Conjunction?” 

Hands were quickly raised again.

“Muron?”

“Nobody could use magic anymore,” replied the girl.

“Very good. That’s correct. The chaotic Power that had been in the world no longer existed. And there was a second and equally important consequence of the Power vanishing? Does anyone know?”  
  
No one raised their hand on this question for several long moments until finally one student towards the back of the group shyly lifted his. She wasn’t surprised. Pazel was the brightest, most well-read of her students.

“Yes, Pazel?”

“Well, the…uh…female Aen Seidhe…” Pazel began to blush. “They could…you know, get pregnant a lot easier.”

“That’s right,” the teacher said with a smile that reached her clear, bright eyes. “When the Chaos came into the world during the First Conjunction, it not only greatly reduced the lifespan of all Aen Seidhe, it also specifically cursed the elven females by affecting their reproductive organs. But, after the Power vanished with the Second Conjunction, each new female born had a reproduction cycle more in line with human women. And that - along with the lack of monsters and centuries of peace - has allowed for our population to thrive once again.”  
  
The teacher looked around at her students. “But there’s one last lesson that we haven’t discussed. In fact, it’s the most important lesson that can be learned from the Second Conjunction. Does anyone know what it is?”

This time not even Pazel raised his hand.

The teacher nodded her head and looked intently at each of her students. Her normally-smiling, joyful face took on a serious tone.

“The lesson is this – _Essea can be trusted_. He promised through his prophets that he would cleanse this world, and he fulfilled that promise…as he has every promise that he’s ever made. So, no matter what happens in your life – even during your blackest of nights, even when you’re crawling through the deepest of valleys - you can always rely on his faithfulness. He will never forsake his children. 

“Now, we may not always understand the when, the how, or the why of his sovereign plan, but we can trust that he will _always_ fulfill it. And, usually,” she added with a smile, “he does it in the most incredible of ways, ways that we could never expect. Think about the Second Conjunction. He brought it about in our darkest moment - just as the Aen Seidhe nation was on the verge of extinction. And, amazingly, he used Apophis’ own plans and device against him. And even though magic in the world disappeared, he miraculously sustained the lives of all the unborn in the palace at Dol Blathanna. 

“And, lastly…consider _who_ he used. Not an Aen Seidhe. Not even someone who had been brought up in our faith. But a human – traditionally, the elves’ greatest enemy. And not just any human, but a mutant. A wandering outcast who was ostracized by virtually all groups of society. A broken, humbled man with one leg. That just shows that Essea can and will use even the least likely individual.” The teacher shook her head. “What a truly awesome, sovereign God that we worship. And _that_ is the most important lesson.”

As she looked at each of her pupils’ faces, they were all nodding back at her in understanding. 

“Well, I think that’s enough for today. Unless anyone has any last questions, comments, or complaints, then I’ll see you again, same time next week. Who would like to close us in prayer?”

“But, Miss Evangeline! What about the White Wolf?” asked a student.

“Yeah, what happened to Gwynbleidd?” queried one of the elves. 

A sad smile crossed the teacher’s face. 

“Well, I tell you what…that can be your homework for the week. Do some research on Geralt. Ask your parents what stories they’ve heard, or see if you can find some books in our library that discuss his tales. There are one or two there. Then, next week, we’ll share with each other what we’ve learned. And we’ll discuss if the legends and myths actually fit the facts.” 

oOo

_The Sansretour Valley, Toussaint; 1275_

It was a warm autumn day, the sun still shining brightly in the late afternoon. Even though he wasn’t wearing any of his heavy armor, a few beads of sweat still dotted Geralt’s brow as he walked through the tall stalks. Instead of his swords, he had a large, wicker basket strapped to his back, into which he’d toss ears of corn after pulling them off their stalks. His knife was more or less the only blade that he carried at all anymore. His silver sword was collecting dust on a weapons rack in his bedroom, and the only time he ever wielded his steel sword was when he had a hankering for mountain boar for dinner. He paused for a moment and decided to shuck the ear of corn in his hand. He pulled the husk away to reveal rows of bright yellow kernels underneath. The sight brought a smile to his face, and he raised the corn up to his nose and inhaled deeply. 

An hour later, Geralt came to the end of the last row in the field, his harvesting for the day complete. He then turned and began walking up the hill towards his house. He may have walked with a severe limp, but there was also an ease to his gait that he’d only acquired in the last two years. He no longer stalked the ground like a predator after his prey. He had the peaceful walk of a simple farmer. 

After reaching the archway that spanned the main road that led to his home, he turned and gazed back down the hill towards his property. A tenth of his land at Corvo Bianco remained dedicated to grapes, but the rest he’d turned into very large vegetable gardens. In addition to the corn, he grew tomatoes, carrots, onions, squash, beans and a variety of other vegetables. In a separate section, he cultivated all kinds of melons and berries. He actually grew way more produce than he could eat, but it didn’t go to waste. Once a week, he would put numerous crates of food on a wagon and head to the main plaza of Beauclair. He, along with the roughly two dozen families living in the region, would meet weekly to trade – or many times, simply to give away – whatever extra produce they’d grown or excess materials they’d crafted. Of course, the real reason they all came together each week was to worship Essea. It seemed that everyone left on the Continent, regardless of race or species, was one of his followers.

Geralt was on friendly terms with all of his neighbors, but he never mentioned to any of them just what role he had played in the Second Conjunction of the Spheres. And though his cat-like eyes made it clear to everyone just what he was, no one ever called him “Witcher.” They just called him Geralt. Nor did he ever hear the moniker, “The Butcher of Blaviken,” spoken in hushed voices. If anything, he was simply known as “the kind, old farmer from Corvo Bianco.” And that suited Geralt just fine.

As he stood there, staring at his land below, a slight breeze kicked up. The gentle wind cooled his brow, and he shifted his eyes upward as a small smile came to his face. 

“You’re really on display today, Father. Another beautiful day,” he said in a whisper. 

He looked out, admiring the crops a bit longer. 

“Thank you for your provision. You’re a good God.” 

Eventually, he exhaled deeply and nodded his head. 

“May you keep me from ever taking you and your love for granted,” he said before finally turning around and limping up to his house.

He dropped the wicker basket off at his now-covered front porch - where he’d shuck the corn later on - and glanced at the porch’s roof. Over the past several months, Geralt had taught himself, by trial-and-error, the intricate craft of carpentry. While – to his surprise – he seemed to have a gift with farming, he knew his wood-working skills still left a lot to be desired. The last thunder storm had been confirmation of that. While the porch’s roof did an adequate job of keeping the sun off of him, he’d counted no less than a half-a-dozen spots where the water had leaked through the last time it had rained. He was still debating on whether to fix the leaks or not. To Geralt, the porch seemed like a fitting metaphor for his walk with Essea – ultimately sheltered and protected but, at times, still allowed to experience a bit of the storms. Maybe one day he’d get around to patching up the roof, but for now, he decided he’d leave it be. 

He grabbed the empty jug that he kept on the bench of the porch and headed over to the spring of clear water that bubbled up from the ground back behind his house. The brook flowed down through his property, irrigating his fields, before continuing on towards the Sansretour River. He sat down next to the spring and filled his jug. After drinking down half of the refreshing liquid, he refilled the container. He then leaned over and submerged his head completely into the brook, both cooling himself from the day’s heat and washing away the sweat and dirt on his face and neck. He brought himself upright and back into the sitting position and enjoyed the sensation as the rivulets of water ran down his back and chest. After filling his cupped-hands with more water and rinsing away the grime from his forearms, he stood, grabbed his jug, and limped back to the porch. 

On a small table at one end of the porch were two books and a medium-sized box. One of the books was a thick tome of Essean Scripture, and the other was his personal journal. He sat down on the porch’s bench, opened the box, and pulled out his wedding present and a pouch of tobacco. He looked at the pipe for a moment, caressing the smooth finish with the tip of his thumb and letting several pleasant memories play through his mind. Eventually, he filled the bowl with tobacco, and then, after lighting the leaf with the aid of a tinder box, he sat for a while just peacefully listening to nature around him – the chirping birds, the bubbling brook, the soothing whisper of the wind. 

It wasn’t long before he had a visitor. A small, gray and white, tabby cat walked up to him, stood at his feet, and let out a single meow. Geralt smiled.

“Well, hello, Dandelion,” he greeted. “Did you catch some mice today?”

The cat answered with another meow and then hopped up onto the bench. It climbed onto Geralt’s lap and walked around a bit until it found a comfortable spot. Then, it curled up on his lap and closed its eyes. Geralt smiled again and then began to gently pet the little cat behind his ears. It wasn’t long before he could hear it purring. 

After a while, he reached over for his journal and opened it to its last entry. He spent the next hour smoking, writing, and petting the small cat in his lap. The sun was just disappearing behind Mount Gorgon when he finally finished scribbling down his thoughts. He read through again what he’d written, and after coming to the end, he nodded his head. 

He lifted the cat from his lap, and after he had placed it on the ground, it gave him a pitiful sounding meow. Geralt chuckled.

“Sorry to spoil your sleep, little buddy, but I’ve got something to do. You can come with if you like.”

It looked up at him, gave him a parting meow, and then it scampered away, as if something on the other side of the estate had suddenly caught its attention. Geralt smiled again and then shook his head, amazed that he was actually on friendly terms with a cat of all things. How times had changed. 

Carrying his journal with him, he stepped off the back-side of the porch and traveled over a well-worn path to a clearing on the north side of his property. Surrounding the clearing were several small saplings that Geralt had planted and hoped would, one day, grow into an orchard of fruit trees. He walked past the saplings and stood in the middle of the clearing, where a small but well-crafted headstone rested. On the headstone were just two words, “My Love.” 

On three sides of the gravesite, Geralt had built a thigh-high wooden fence. It was actually nothing but four posts secured into the ground, with a couple of tree limbs tied with twine to the posts. Geralt had built the fence not so much for protection but rather to act as a trellis. Climbing all over the posts and along the horizontal railing was a green plant, with small, white flowers and a very distinctive fragrance. It had taken him several months traveling through the southern part of the Continent before he’d finally found some adult, vanilla bean plants, but bringing them back had been worth it. He’d spent countless hours just sitting in the clearing, the scent bringing back his fondest memories.

Geralt sat down on the ground, resting his back against one of the fence posts, and faced the headstone. His right leg – with its wooden prosthesis - was straight out in front of him, while his left leg was bent, his knee sticking up in the air. He opened his journal and rested it on his left thigh. 

“I finally finished my latest poem,” he said out loud, looking at the headstone. “It’s the longest one I’ve ever written. I titled it, ‘Love’s Call.’”

He paused for a moment – as if he was expecting something – but after hearing only the gentle breeze, he began to read. 

_“A tiny boat on an ocean of blue,_   
_A searching man drifts alone._   
_A voice beckons, love’s call rings true._   
_Below are wonders he’s never known._

_Sea life swimming with elegance,_   
_Vibrant colors beyond the mind._   
_He must partake, risk the chance_   
_If true love he is to find._

_Beauty isn’t all he sees._   
_Monsters, too, lurk below,_   
_But he smells her scent upon the breeze._   
_To catch the dream, he must go._

_Despite the dangers, he fights his fear._   
_Faith in the promise that the future holds._   
_His hope grows more as she draws near_   
_For tales of safety he’s been told._

_So, in he dives without a vest_   
_For he believes her words are true._   
_A strange sensation fills his chest_   
_As he’s swallowed by a love of blue._

_A wondrous creature takes his hand._   
_He willingly follows deeper down._   
_With visions of a golden land,_   
_To their heaven, he thinks they’re bound._

_He’s found a peace he’s never known._   
_The lost treasure he’s sought all his nights._   
_This wandering man has found his home,_   
_And his spirit soars to new heights._

_Then, without warning, she is gone._   
_His soul consumed by despair._   
_He no longer hears her mystic song._   
_Now frantic looks and gasps for air._

_All around doubt moves in._   
_He feels he’s taken his last breath._   
_The air he’ll never taste again,_   
_And for a moment, he welcomes death._

_But from the hand of grace, he’s given strength,_   
_And slowly he begins to rise._   
_The light miles away, he thinks._   
_Its rays barely reach his eyes._

_He fights upward toward the sun_   
_Ignoring the burn that’s within._   
_For if he wallows, then pain has won,_   
_And the darkness will drag him down again._

_One last demon attacks his heart._   
_Its teeth bared to rip his chest._   
_It tries to tear his soul apart,_   
_But he fends it off as he has the rest._

_A final surge toward the line._   
_Through the surface his head breaks free._   
_He gulps the air that tastes like wine,_   
_And basks in the light triumphantly._

_For he’s finally now beyond death’s grasp,_   
_His weary soul has been renewed._   
_And his faith is stronger than in the past_   
_For he survived that taste of blue._

_One day ahead, if a new voice starts,_   
_That he didn’t hear, he won’t pretend._   
_He’ll risk more scars to his heart,_   
_And wrapped in grace, he’ll dive again.”_

Geralt exhaled deeply, closed his journal, and then his eyes scanned the words on the tombstone for what must have been the thousandth time. He shifted his focus upward about a foot, to the top of the headstone. Lying on the flat surface was a silver, wolf-head medallion – the one that had belonged to Vesemir and Ciri. The medallion that he’d given Evie on their wedding day he kept around his neck, resting close to his heart.

A small, sad smile appeared on his face. 

“I know. It’s a bit…cliché.” 

He then sighed. 

“Ah…baby…how I wish I could hear your laugh right now. I can just imagine you telling me that you’re not sure which I’m better at – poetry or carpentry.” 

Geralt swallowed and then looked up into the early night sky. It was a deep purple in the west, and the stars were just becoming visible. He knew that in less than an hour, thousands of them would be twinkling above. He thought he saw a shooting star out of the corner of his eye, back towards the east, but when he quickly shifted his gaze that way, it was already gone.

He exhaled deeply and spoke again. 

“I still miss you, Evie…two years later, and it still feels like a part of my heart is missing. But…I’ll be home with you one day.” 

At that thought, his smile changed, growing a little less melancholy. 

“And what a great day that will be. Me and you, living in the presence of Essea.” 

He exhaled deeply a second time and nodded to himself. 

“What a great day that will be.” 

In the days following the Second Conjunction, Geralt had wondered several times why he’d chosen to escape from the temple ruins atop of Mount Dealande. He knew that he could have simply stood next to Apophis’ device and let the explosion kill him. Then, he could have been with both Essea and Evie – the one place he wanted to be more than any other. But he’d only pondered the question a handful of times before he’d quickly understood why he’d chosen life over death in that moment. It was simple - his God valued life, and he wanted to respect his God. In the two years since, he’d never once regretted his decision to live. He knew Essea would take him home at the exact right time – no sooner and no later.

After a few more minutes of contemplation, Geralt slowly stood. He winced a bit from the throbbing in his right leg. It always hurt after a long bout of walking like he’d done that day. He was looking forward to a shot of healing potion followed by a long night of sleep. 

He peered at the headstone a final time and then began gingerly walking back towards his house, but halfway there, he heard the sound of a horse-drawn wagon coming up his drive. He increased his gait, and, once back to the house, he dropped his journal on the porch table and then quickly headed inside. He came out a moment later with a lit torch in his hand. He limped down the steps to where the wagon had stopped, pausing along the way to place the torch in a nearby brazier in order to give some illumination for his guests. There were two figures on the carriage seat, both wearing cowls that covered their faces. The person without the reins carried two bundles, one each resting against his or her shoulders. 

“Greetings,” said Geralt. “And welcome to Corvo Bianco. Name’s Geralt. Can I offer you a meal and a place to stay for the night?”

The driver hopped off the wagon and approached Geralt. She lowered her cowl and replied, “Greetings, Geralt…and yes, you can.”

For a moment, Geralt couldn’t say anything. He just stared at the person in front of him – a look of wonder on his face.

“Lydial! What are you doing here?” he finally asked, stepping forward and pulling the elf into a warm embrace.

They held onto each other tightly for a long time, neither one even bothering to speak. Eventually they broke their hug, and she stepped back from him. He could see the tears welling up in her eyes, but she also wore a joyful smile.

“You once said that I was always welcome here. And…we thought you could use some company.”

“Of course, you’re welcome here, and yes, I can definitely use the company,” he said, returning her smile. “But, tell me, who’s ‘we?’” 

His eyes glanced toward Lydial’s companion.

Lydial walked over to the other passenger. She, too, had dropped her cowl and Geralt could tell she was an Aen Seidhe.

Lydial carefully and tenderly grabbed one of the blanket-covered bundles from the other elf, and then they both approached Geralt.

“This is my friend, Ettariel, and her adopted son.”

“Hello, Geralt. I’ve heard a lot about you. I hope this isn’t an inconvenience.”

“Not at all,” he replied with a warm smile. “I’ve got plenty of space here. You can stay as long as you like. And it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He then turned back towards Lydial and looked at the bundle in her arms.

“And who is that?” he asked.

“This,” said Lydial, “is my adopted daughter. She’s come all the way from Dol Blathanna to meet you. Would you like to hold her?”

“Uhh…I don’t know. Don’t have a lot of experience with babies. Are you sure?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“I trust you, Geralt.”

He smiled and gave a small shake of his head. “Alright, then.”

Lydial placed the elven baby in his arms, and he gently moved the blanket to one side and looked down into her sleeping face. She had thin, brown hair, adorned with a tiny, pink bow. He was no expert on kids, but given her size and how long her hair was, he was sure she was no infant. He figured that she was at least two years old. 

Geralt didn’t say anything for the longest time. He just stared at the little elf in his arms. He noticed that some of her hair was resting against her cheek so he used his index finger and tenderly brushed it back behind her ear, just like he’d seen Evie do hundreds of times.

“What’s her name?” he eventually asked in a whisper. 

He still couldn’t take his eyes off of her, resting in a peaceful slumber.

“I named her Evangeline.”

Geralt quickly raised his head and looked at Lydial. She was smiling warmly back at him. The two just stared at each for a long time. Geralt felt his breath catch in his throat, and he clenched his jaws tightly. The firelight shimmered off the tears now running down Lydial’s cheeks. Finally, a small smile came to his face. He nodded his head at his friend and looked back down at the child his arms.

“Well…welcome home, Evangeline,” he said, his voice breaking. “Welcome home.”

oOo

The End

oOo

Final Author’s Note (July 2018):

I, again, want to thank everyone at CD Projekt Red who made such an incredible game with such well-developed and interesting characters that it inspired me to write this tale. I also want to give much praise to the composers of the Witcher music. Throughout this entire writing process, I had Witcher songs - from both the official soundtracks and in-game only - playing in the background. The music is amazing, very inspiring, and definitely worth buying.

I am also very grateful to my best friend who acted as a great sounding board during this entire process. This story is much better because of his insight and suggestions. Thanks, Tim.

If you got this far, then I’m going to assume that you enjoyed the adventure. I hope you got as much out of reading it as I did writing it because it’s been an amazing experience for me. This story took nearly two years and over 300,000 words to tell. Just reading that sentence makes me shake my head, for there were many times – during several bouts of writer’s block - when I doubted if I’d finish it. So, if you ever left me any kind of feedback at any point, then you have my heart-felt gratitude. You’ll never know just how much your encouragement meant to me. It truly made a difference.

I look back to the first chapter of Book 1 and see where Geralt was at the time, and then I see where he finished, and I think, “Man, I put the poor guy through a lot.” It was definitely a hard journey for him, but I like where he ended up. My hope is that you did, too. Thank you, again, and may your life be filled with grace and peace. 


End file.
